Gone Wylde 01:  Moving Things Around
by Concolor44
Summary: Wendy Wylde inherits an old estate from her uncle and decides to move to Vermont for a fresh start to her otherwise disappointing life. She gets a LOT more excitement than she bargained for from the locals. AU, anthro, speculative fiction
1. Chapter 1 Can I Get There From Here?

Hello, Gentle Reader -

As you will deduce from the copyright information below, I began this weighty tome some ten years ago.

In the summer of 2000 I had traveled to DragonCon to visit my brother, Dan Jolley, who was exhibiting there. While waiting in line to register, I picked up a slim volume of comics from a stack that was left out for those of us cooling our heels in the long queue. It was put out by a company called Plan Nine Publishing, and primarily presented 'furry' (anthropomorphic) comics: Kevin & Kell, Sabrina On-line, Freefall, Ozzy & Millie, The Suburban Jungle, and several others. I was entranced. I'd never heard of this genre, and was quite taken with both the storylines and the excellent artwork.

When I got back home I looked up these comics and read all the archives, and was shortly hooked ... irrevocably. A link from Sabrina On-line took me to Max Blackrabbit's home page, and gave me more background on ZigZag, the tiger-striped skunkette who ran Double-Z Studios, an adult-entertainment company. From there I found James Bruner's marvelous fanfic concerning ZigZag, which I practically inhaled. The writing was tight, the dialog totally believable, and the story compelling. I wanted more. A link took me then to Chris Yost's tale of Sabrina, another fanfic that belonged on the shelf next to the Great Works.

By the next January my Muse had shown up. She unzipped my head, poured in this story, fastened me back up, and said, "Write!" So I wrote. I'm still writing, seventy chapters later. The outline has a total of 73 chapters, and the final one, the Epilogue, is already finished. I have pieces of three left to complete as of this writing. I'll be adding a chapter here every few-days-to-a-week; some of them are pretty long and I don't like to rush folks.

If you already like furry literature, this might just be right up your alley. If you don't know what I'm talking about, think of Bugs Bunny, or the Thundercats, or the Ninja Turtles, or SWAT Kats. Better yet, look up Sabrina On-line and read the archives. Then you'll REALLY have a good idea of what's going on. Not that you'll be lost if you don't. The inside jokes are pretty rare. In any case, I think you'll like it. It's been incredible fun to write (that is, to take dictation from the characters, which is what I've been doing since about Chapter 5).

Cheers!

Concolor44

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Copyrights

Wendy Vixxen and Chris Foxx and Debbye (Squirrel) Evans are Copyright © Chris Yost.  
Sabrina Mustelidae is Copyright © Eric W. Schwartz.  
Lee Evans and George & Linda Evans are Copyright © Evan Meyerle.  
Matt Sinclair and Diedra Shikari are Copyright © Dan Jolley.  
Cheetaur is Copyright © Mark White.  
Tygon and Victoria and Cinnamon Panthera are Copyright © Marc-Dennis Horn.  
Caspian Furmark is Copyright © himself.  
The Ash Creek Inn, Karl Luscus, David Vulpin, Blanche Vixxen Vulpin, Julian Algernon Vulpin, Arthur Wylde, Leonard Capra, Ellen Vison, Amelie Sorex, Harper Fenton, Jenna Mephitine, Quinn Coonworth, Hemanth Rajid, The O'Musca Family, Teresa Weidi, Koindo Alopex, Cho Li Helar, Ted Border, Ullania and Reba McMouse Lynx, Casey Gleeson, Perrin Rodin, Elly Tabb, Red Raines, Pastor Alan Grey, Sandee Grey, Samantha Foxx, Daren Foxx, Flossie Foxx, Sean Foxx, Alice Foxx, Conner von Trapp, Aurora Freefur, Sylvia "Rusty" Sylvilagus, Hamadi Gafah, Niles Grosvenor, John "Red Jack" Damien, Michael Truefoot, Dr. Robert Topol, and all other incidental characters are Copyright © Clint McInnes.

**Disclaimer**  
This story is rated **R **for occasional graphic violence, strong language, and adult  
situations. Parents, read and update your Internet access software accordingly.

**Legal Notice**  
This story is Copyright © 2001-2011 by Clint McInnes, aka Concolor44. This story  
may not be sold or used for commercial profit in any form or fashion. This story may  
not be modified in any way. This story may not be posted on a mirror site or any  
other Internet site without the written permission of the author. This story may not  
be distributed on print, magnetic, electrical or optical media. This is an independent  
work of fiction with no connection whatsoever to Eric W. Schwartz, E.S. Productions,  
Dan Jolley or Chris Yost and is in no way meant to imply any connection with Eric W.  
Schwartz, E.S. Productions, Dan Jolley or Chris Yost. This story contains characters  
created by Eric W. Schwartz, Dan Jolley and Chris Yost. Events and characters  
occurring in this story should not be considered part of the storylines for 'Sabrina  
On-line', or 'Sabrina Online - The Story', or 'Redeemer's Law'. In fact, as far as  
'Sabrina Online', 'Sabrina Online - The Story', or 'Redeemer's Law' are concerned,  
this story does not exist. The artists disavow any knowledge of and do not officially  
sanction the events in this story. Any resemblance between these fictional  
characters and any real person, living or dead, is a happy coincidence, the proper  
response to which would be appreciation of the accidental flattery.

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**Gone Wylde**

by Clint McInnes

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**Book One: The Trouble With Moving Things Around**

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**Author's Note: The suggested soundtrack for this section is "Pretty Woman" by Roy Orbison.**

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**_Chapter One – Can I Get There From Here?_**

**Life is ten percent what happens to you,  
****and ninety percent how you react to it.**

##

_** Friday 03 June 2016, 10:13am **_

Mark was giving the street a slow scan, his eye glued to the camcorder's viewer, when the tiny red light began flashing on the display. _Crap! Again?_ "Hey Steve, go score me another battery pack, wouldja? This one's finkin' out."

Steve gave his partner half a smile and headed for the truck, calling over his shoulder, "Well if you'd turn your new toy _off_ once in a while, maybe we could get through the morning and still have a pack left for the afternoon. This'll make number three, y'know."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." _This new nanopixel system really sucks up the juice. Worth it, though._

The burly otter opened the big van's passenger door and stirred through the junk on the floorboard, coming up with one of the two remaining packs. He gave the monitors in the back a quick once-over, nodding in satisfaction. Live feed pick-up streaming in perfectly. He grabbed a couple of juice boxes in his other paw, then used his tail to close the door as he headed over to the camera-man.

Ambling back, he looked up and down College Street, noting with satisfaction the perfect contrast that the intense green of the leaves on the pear trees made with the red and yellow pansies in the large pots standing between them. The leaves waved and quivered slightly in the light breeze, the warm mid-morning sun casting greeny-flowing shadows on the sidewalk. It was an absolutely perfect day for a photo shoot.

"Yo, Mark." Steve handed him the battery pack and watched while the lemur powered down and made the exchange.

Mark tossed the spent pack to his partner, popped the new pack home, swiveled the quarter-turn screw to lock it, and asked, "Everything still recording okay in the truck?"

"Ayah."

Mark repositioned the 'corder and engaged the hypergyro, settling the unit onto his shoulder in perfect balance. The gyroscopic action allowed a fur-mounted setup to mimic a hard-mounted one.

He noted the juice boxes. "One of those for me?"

"Yah. Here."

Mark held the 'corder in place with his upper arm and shoulder while negotiating the straw on the juice box. Steve watched with evident amusement.

Mark was in difficulties. "Y'know you could have opened this thing for me first."

Steve chuckled. "Nah. This is way more entertaining."

"Be entertaining if you made me drop the camera. I'd swear it was you as done it."

Steve grinned largely. "But everybody knows what a colossal liar you are, though."

"I'd resent that if it weren't true."

Mark finally succeeded in getting the straw in the right orifice, and took a long pull on it. "Better. Thanks."

Steve was looking up the street when movement caught his attention. _Oh, yes. Now that's __fine__!_

"Yo, bro. Bandit at eight o'clock."

Mark turned casually, the 'corder tracking, and zeroed in on the petite vixen walking briskly up the sidewalk in their direction. With her deep red fur, and the yellow plaid business suit she wore, she was a dead match for the pansies along the street. She appeared to be preoccupied with something and didn't even glance in their direction.

"My, my. She's perfect."

The vixen strode on and was about to go right past them when Mark spoke up. "Oh, miss?"

She startled and almost missed a step. "What? Oh. Hello. What's wrong?" Her voice was low and throaty. The eyes she turned on them were a light, clear brown and very large, her features delicate and well-balanced. Several pins held back her long headfur in a set of complex loops that framed her face perfectly.

Mark had to clear his throat a couple of times.

"Miss, we're with _**Vermont**_ magazine and we're here doing a shoot for the webzine layout. I was just struck by how well your outfit matches the flowers along the street, and I was, eh, we were wondering if you'd mind posing for a few shots."

She looked to be a little put out. "I'm sorry. I'm trying not to be late for an appointment. I just don't have the time right now." She turned and moved off.

He trotted along beside her. "Please? Please, please? I don't normally beg passers-by this way, but the combination is just too good to pass up. You'll get a fifty-dollar voucher as a thank-you. Good at most any place in Montpelier. And my undying gratitude."

She looked at her watch and considered. "Do you know how far it is to Ridge Street?"

"Sure!" He pointed. "The next intersection is East State Street, and the one after that is Ridge. It's really close."

She nodded. "Okay. You've got four minutes. Where do I stand?"

_Hot damn!_

"Great! How about right there in front of that bookshop? Kinda to one side of the big window in the middle. Okay, yeah." He activated the wide-angle function then moved in until he was satisfied with the framing. "Give me a one-quarter profile, like you're looking at the book on the . . . . Perfect!" The end of her muzzle peeked out from behind the mass of her hair. She had her purse draped over one shoulder, her opposite paw tucked into the jacket pocket, and one leg canted out slightly. His 'corder was getting it all.

"Now move over and kind of lean up against that big flower pot. Yeah, facing this way. Super! Hang on." She had one paw on the top edge of the pot, the other arm akimbo, and was staring into the distance. He moved around to get a long perspective view of the street. _Absolutely fabulous!_

"Now just let me get you framed by the tree and this pot here. Right! Yes, right there. Okay, lemme think a second. Can you cross one leg in front of the . . . yes, terrific!" _Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!_ She half-wrapped her left arm up around the trunk of the tree and leaned her head slightly against the bark, a tiny smile in place, those incredible eyes flashing up at the camera from under her looooong lashes. Her right arm crossed her torso so her paw rested against the trunk a little above waist level.

_She is GOOD! One of these'll make the home page or I'm a hoot owl!_ "Awesome! Thank you! Thank you SO much!" He pulled a couple of cards out of his pocket and handed them to her. "Here's your voucher. And this is my card. If it's okay with your agency, I'd like to see about working with you again. Do you have a card on you?"

"My what?"

"Your agency. You _are_ a model, aren't you? I mean, I just assumed . . . . . ." _Hang on a sec, old son! Don't screw this up._ "You knew all the right poses without my having to explain, and . . . . ." She had one eyebrow quirked up and was giving him the most quizzical look. "You mean you're _not_ a model?" She shook her head. "Jenkers, why not?"

"Look, Mister . . ." She glanced down at the card. ". . . Forrester, I appreciate the compliment and all, but I have to be going." She gave him his card back. "Have a nice day."

And she walked off down the street, head high, her long tail a misty cascade of red and white. The two photographers were absolutely powerless to prevent themselves from staring. They watched until she turned the corner.

Steve wiped his muzzle with the back of one paw. "Wow."

"Yeah. What you said." His eyes widened suddenly and his head jerked around toward the otter. "Hey! You get her name?"

Steve looked at him blankly. "Um. No."

"Well, hell."

##

Wendy sighed. She wished she had time to stop in one of the little coffee houses or cafés and use the voucher. Some breakfast would have been nice. Apart from the truly gorgeous weather, the fates had not been kind on this trip. She mentally replayed all the hiccups, shaking her head in disgust. They'd cancelled her flight for mechanical problems, so she got kicked over to the red-eye. The hotel had nothing but smoking rooms left by the time she got there, and 'essence of ashtray' still lingered in her sinuses. She'd overslept. Either the alarm clock didn't work or she hadn't heard it, so she had to hustle out with nothing but a cup of the substandard complimentary coffee from the urn in the lobby. And to put the perfect touch on an absolutely awful morning, her rental car had blown a hose ten blocks from here.

The gremlins were racking up some overtime.

But she _was_ in Montpelier, she _was_ almost to her destination. Wendy was not, technically, late for the appointment. However, her frustration level was dangerously close to the redline.

She got to number 171 and looked at the name on the glass: Fenton & Associates, P.A. _This is the place._ She pushed the door open.

The squirrel running the front desk looked to be well into her middle years and had that competent air about her. She'd seen Wendy through the glass and was ready when she walked in.

"You would be Ms. Wylde?"

"Yah. That's me. Here's the letter. Is Mr. Fenton in?"

The squirrel glanced briefly over the letter and nodded. "He'll be right with you. Have a seat."

The law office occupied an old town house, tucked cozily between a rare book shop and a place that sold maps. It looked as if the right half of the downstairs had been combined into one large room, with several doors along the left wall leading to small, cubby-hole-type meeting areas. The receptionist's desk stood squarely in the middle of the room, with a low railing running from the desk's right side over to the wall. The other side was left clear for traffic. A staircase ran up the right wall of the large room.

Two black leather sofas flanked a low table in front of the receptionist, and Wendy chose one. She tried to compose herself. She didn't want to seem like a . . . well, she wanted to look normal, whatever that means. She didn't want to antagonize the lawyer. She fidgeted briefly, then picked up one of the magazines on the table and began leafing through it.

A young skunkette, maybe twelve or thirteen, came tripping down the stairs, walked up to the receptionist, and handed her a note. The older squirrel read it, and smiled slightly.

"Tell your dad it's fine with me. I'd love to."

"Okay! Thanks, Rose. You're the best." She darted back up the stairs. "Hey Jeremy, we can go!" She disappeared around the landing and Wendy heard a door slam.

Ten thirty came and went. Ten forty. Ten forty-five.

A tall, slender skunk in a double-breasted blue pin-stripe came down the stairs and walked up to Wendy. His smile was friendly, despite the fatigue stamped plainly on his features. There was a sprinkling of gray in the black of his fur. He put out his paw. "Ms. Wylde? I'm Harper Fenton. Please come on back." He led the way to the last door down the room.

Mr. Fenton held a chair for her at the small table, then seated himself and picked up a sheaf of papers. He separated the top folder and handed it to Wendy.

"This is your uncle's will. Let me just tell you up front that this is a . . . peculiar document. There are quite a few points to go over, so take your time. He had been, well, . . . perhaps you should just read it. I'll answer any questions you may have."

Wendy noted the crabbed scrawl of her uncle's signature immediately above the notarization seal, then read the introduction. "_I, Julian Algernon Vulpin, do hereby bequeath my holdings, known as Ash Creek Plantation, to my niece, Wendy April Vixxen Wylde, only living daughter of my late brother. Included is the house and all items pertaining to it, and the property upon which it is situated. Stipulations are as follows . . . _." She paused to flip through the next few pages and her eyes widened a bit.

"Well." Wendy looked up at Mr. Fenton. "Uncle Julian always did like to ramble on. Guess he enjoyed the sound of his own voice." She went back to the beginning and began studying the "stipulations".

After several minutes she cleared her throat and read aloud, " '_The house must be the primary place of residence for a minimum of ten years_.' Does that mean he has others?"

"No, just that if you take the house you have to live in it. You can't take it and then move somewhere else or sell it."

"Ah." _Can't sell the house, huh? Weird._ She went back to reading. More time passed. "What's the deal with this 'stipend' thing?"

"Living expenses."

"Oh." _Eight hundred a month is hardly that. It'd pay for food and utilities, but that's about all._

The farther she read into the will, the more nonplussed she became. Her obvious distress prompted Mr. Fenton to ask, "Anything I can clear up?"

She laid the folder on the table, shifted in her seat, crossed her legs, and said, "Umm, yeah. First off, I'm a little curious as to what is meant by 'all items pertaining to' the house. Do you know what he had in mind?"

"Basically, at the time of his death, all his holdings were tied up in the house. It seems he is giving you everything he had."

_Hmmmmmmm._ "Well, it's just that . . . see, I hadn't seen my uncle since I was twenty-two. I came to visit once, when I was between semesters, and stayed a week. Now don't get me wrong, we had a great time. I just never expected this." _But it totally got your hopes up when you heard about him kicking the bucket, didn't it?_

"You are his nearest living relative. There were only three others that I was able to locate, they are all very distant cousins, and all profoundly uninterested in an old house in Vermont. I suppose it's only logical that he chose you."

She considered that for a moment, and said, "So, there aren't any other . . . aspects of his will?"

"I'm sorry, I don't follow you."

"Okay." She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, elbows on the table, paws under her chin. "When I was young, my folks used to come here every summer, at least until Dad died. I was eleven." She paused, her gaze distant. "I _loved_ those visits. We'd stay two whole weeks, which might as well be forever to a child. The meals were always elegant, with fresh cut flowers on the table at breakfast, linen and silver and china, tea in the afternoon, and some elaborate gourmet thing from India or Turkey or Morocco or somewhere at supper. Excuse me, _dinner_. He had to make that distinction. And the maid always made the beds. I thought for a long time that that was why she was called a 'maid'." Mr. Fenton smiled at that.

"He always kept the formal garden trimmed nicely, with potted flowers at each intersection. I would play in those paths for hours, and climb on that honkin' great rock in the middle. There's this immense old copper beech on the north side of the house that was perfect for climbing, too. We'd get so high up we'd be scared to try to go back down. The cook had two kids almost my age and we always had the best time exploring and playing. We'd be up and down staircases all day, sneaking into the attic, pinching tarts from the cooling rack. It was marvelous. Of course, the house is enormous. You've seen it, haven't you?" Her eyes shone with long-forgotten memories of a much happier time.

Mr. Fenton's mood seemed to get quite a bit more somber. "Yes, I have been to the property. Twice."

Wendy missed the change in his demeanor. "It's such a grand place. Three floors full of hallways and rooms and secret passages and he had this big round tower thing that he called a Folly on one of the front corners. It has a spiral staircase going all the way to the top. And the whole place was always just as neat as a pin. Besides the cook he had a butler and a maid and a . . . yard-man? Gardener? Grounds-keeper? I don't remember exactly what he was called. But that's not important, is it?" She looked straight at him. "I'd like to know whether the servants come with the house?" _There! I said it!_ "And if so, what are the arrangements for paying them? I mean, is there an account set up for that?" She held her breath.

Mr. Fenton gazed at her for a time with his brows somewhat wrinkled. He fiddled with a pencil, tapping its eraser gently on the notepad in front of him. It filtered through to her just how really tired he appeared. The word 'drawn' came to mind.

The lawyer sat slowly back in his seat, and said, "You haven't seen the place in twenty years. A lot can happen in that amount of time. Many changes."

Wendy did _not_ like the turn this conversation had taken. "What kinds of changes?"

"Did you finish reading the will?"

"Well, not entirely."

"Please do so."

Nervously, she picked up the folder and found her place. Shortly her brow furrowed. "What's this apology for? _'Please don't be angry with me. I'm so terribly sorry for what I did. I never meant to hurt you.'_ "

He cocked his head to one side and started twirling the pencil slowly, using both paws. "What kind of furson do you remember your uncle as being?"

_And what kind of question is that?_ She shrugged and frowned. "He was my uncle . . . Dad's older brother. Much older, really, like twenty years or so. He was a great talker. He liked practical jokes, although I don't remember him ever playing one on me. He had . . . well, macabre taste, especially in art and architecture. He had oddball knick-knacks stuck all over the house. He had done an awful lot of traveling, I guess that's where he picked up most of his junk." Looking at him intently, she asked, "Did you ever hear how he got the house?"

"Just the occasional hint. I inferred that he had bought it on the cheap from a friend."

"Something like that. See, apparently, he'd ended up with the lion's share of the peripatetic genes in his generation. Lord knows, my father never got any of them. Uncle Julian hit the road before he got out of his teens, right in the middle of the Depression, and worked his way across the Atlantic as an oiler's pimp on a tramp steamer. He did service as a mercenary in the Belgian Congo, harvested cinnamon in India and black pepper in Malay." She chuckled. "And he made a tidy little profit mining opals in Australia. At least, that was his story and he never changed it."

"Busy boy."

"Yah. But he couldn't stop his feet from itching, never settled on any one spot. During the Second World War, I think it was in . . . late 1943? I disremember. Anyway, halfway through his third trip around the world . . ."

"Pardon me?"

"You heard right. Third. And it wasn't his last by any means. Anyhow, he found himself, through one of those wrong-place-at-the-wrong-time circumstances, working with an underground resistance group in the South Pacific. He spent several months ferrying supplies (at night, via canoe) to a group of British and American soldiers, and trying his best not to impede the progress of any Japanese bullets. His primary contact was a U.S. Navy Lieutenant. A Maine Coon cat named Felidon, who happened to be the only son of the chairman of the bank that owned the house."

"Wait a minute, please. Would that be _Albert_ Felidon? Of Peninsula Mutual?"

". . . . . Yyyeah, I _think_ his name was Albert. Don't remember the name of the company. How do you know him?"

"I only know _of_ him. I knew his granddaughter from college."

Wendy folded her paws in her lap and gave him a steady look. "You know, I don't believe I could tell you the names of any of my classmates' grandparents. How is it you happen to know his?"

"He endowed a chair in the College of Business at my alma mater. His grandchildren got to attend school for free. All of us knew them."

"Oh! Sorry. I, ummm, didn't mean to sound so accusatory."

"And I didn't mean to interrupt. Do please continue. This is fascinating."

"Thanks. Well, let's see . . . Uncle Julian ended up saving his life two or three times, they became friends, and kept in touch after the war ended. Time passed and Uncle kept on rolling. I have no idea how many different things he did, but evidently it wore a little thin. Or his age was catching him up. In 1958 he popped up at Mr. Felidon's place in the Adirondacks. He'd just finished a long stint doing some photography in central Asia for the National Museum, and sorely needed to kick back for a couple of weeks. But Mr. Felidon had other ideas, so instead, the two of them took a short trip to Vermont to look over a piece of property. The bank was going through a reorganization and Uncle's friend, who'd just taken over the helm, wanted to start by trimming as much dead wood as he could. Ash Creek had been written off as a loss for years, so Uncle Julian could get it for a song, if he wanted it. Which he did. He jumped on it and never looked back."

"Very nice. I had noted from the tax records that he got the house fifty-eight years ago."

"Right. I understand it was pretty beat up at the time, but he brought in construction crews and whatnot, fixed it up. Put a stable out behind the house for his horses, and a kennel for the hunting dogs. He enjoyed hunting, or at least he said he did. I don't remember him ever actually going on a hunt, though. Oh, and he had a _really_ terrific library, oh, wow, you ought to see . . . but then you have, you've been there, and . . . ." She got a chill. "The house is still there, isn't it?"

The three or four seconds he took to answer that question seemed _much_ too long to Wendy. "It's still there. Ms. Wylde, what I meant by asking about your uncle was, when you last saw him, did he seem stable, well-adjusted, friendly, . . . . . . sane?"

She started at that last word. _Uncle Julian went nuts?_ She kept her expression fixed. "Yes, sir, I'd have to say so. He never exhibited any symptoms of lunacy that I could detect. He was ever the gracious host."

"Ah. Right, then, well, . . . quite a few years ago, your uncle began to harbor fears that he was under surveillance by some unknown agency of the government. Or the mob. Or malevolent spirits. After a time, his actions and attitudes caused most of the staff to resign, and about ten years ago he chased off the last one. At gunpoint. His trips into town became less and less frequent, and some six or seven years ago (I was never able to pin down an exact date) he stopped coming in altogether. He set up some kind of arrangement with the mail-carrier for her to bring him food supplies every week. She was uncomfortable with the subject and wouldn't give me details. Kept referring to him as 'That poor old thing.' But basically he lived his last years as a hermit. He would leave the house at night and prowl around his property, tearing things apart. He dismantled the horse barn, dug up the formal gardens, broke the dam on Ash Creek."

Wendy's mouth dropped open by degrees as her eyes widened.

"He cut down some of the larger trees. One night several months ago he dynamited the large rock in the center of the garden."

Wendy sat bolt upright at that. This was just too much! "But WHY? What happened to him?"

"_That_ is why I asked you about his sanity." His look was sympathetic. She seemed to be taking the news pretty hard. "After the explosion . . . and by the way, we never found out where he got the dynamite . . . he was arrested and spent a few days in the local lock-up while a psychiatrist examined him. The diagnosis was schizophrenia, complicated by senile dementia and congestive heart failure. He was moved to a rest home not far from here, and seemed to be relieved to be away from his house. It is thought he believed the place either haunted or sentient, and he was in some sort of war with it." He smiled apologetically.

"As I said, he was schizophrenic. He got better once the doctor got him on the right medications. He had many days when he could be quite rational. It was then that he made out this will. How he got my name, I never discovered, but he insisted on assigning me power of attorney, and having me handle his affairs after he died." He tapped his pencil on the table while waiting for Wendy to absorb all this.

Wendy sat very still for almost a minute, going over what he had said. "How did he pay for the rest home?"

"With a check."

"So he has, um _had_ a checking account?"

Mr. Fenton's muzzle hiked up at one side in a wry grimace. "Several. If your memories of him include his being loaded, I cannot disagree with you."

She frowned at him suspiciously. "Then why the funny face?"

"Ms. Wylde, my research was pretty thorough. Your Uncle Julian had upwards of two-and-a-half million dollars scattered around in numerous accounts in the northeast."

_That_ got her attention!

"The accounts were still there, but most of them had been radically depleted before he was committed. He left, at most, a few hundred dollars in each. I took it upon myself after his death to close them, and pooled the resulting cash." He pulled a check from the papers and handed it to her. It was for three thousand and forty-eight dollars, made out to her. "Your uncle gave me a generous retainer for handling his case. Very generous. So I felt justified in spending as much time as I did getting all this together. I hope it is satisfactory."

Wendy was very confused. "What did he do with all the money?"

Mr. Fenton sighed. "I am not completely sure. This is the only clue we have at present." He reached down into his briefcase and pulled out a small object which he placed on the table. It was an origami crane, very well done. It was made from a fifty dollar bill.

Wendy sagged. "Oh, please, Lord, no."

"Now don't jump to conclusions," he cautioned. "This is the only one we found. But we didn't find any other traces of the money. He may have buried it on the property. He may have hidden it in the house. Or he may have given it away or used it to heat the place for all we know. That's the problem. We don't know. And try as he might, he couldn't remember."

Wendy could think of nothing to say. No money. A dilapidated house. Property that more than likely resembled a demilitarized zone. She'd traveled all this way for nothing. _Not that I shouldn't have seen this coming. This __**is**__ my life we're talking about here, isn't it?_

Mr. Fenton had to say her name twice before he got a response. "I think you should see the place before making up your mind. If you'd like, I can drive you out there this afternoon."

She thought about it for a few seconds and shrugged. "Yeah. Whatever."

"I suspect it won't align very closely with your childhood memories, but you might be pleasantly surprised, considering the circumstances. I think it is still worth your while to check it out."

She clasped her paws together and placed them in her lap, then looked at him with a carefully neutral expression. "I'd be more pleased if you could tell me the location of a decent restaurant. I had to skip breakfast to get here on time, and being hungry doesn't do a _thing_ for my attitude. Perhaps you've noticed."

He chuckled at that. "Tell you what. I'll go you one better. I was planning to take my children to lunch very soon, anyway. Why don't you join us? My treat."

She thought about it. "That would be the cute skunk in the yellow sundress and her brother . . . Jeremy, was it?"

"Very perceptive. Yes, her name is Julie. She's twelve, going on twenty-two. Jeremy is ten-and-a-half and still thinks girls have cooties. They're great kids. They're with me for a long weekend."

"Oh. So then you're . . . ."

". . . . . . Yes. We've been divorced for almost a year."

He didn't vouchsafe any further information, and Wendy certainly wasn't going to pry. The subject of divorce was a touchy one for her as well.

She smiled at him. "Well, then, sure, I wouldn't mind tagging along, as long as I'm not intruding. And as long as it isn't fast food. I don't do grease."

He chuckled. "Neither do I. I have a digestive condition that precludes my eating any number of things. No, we were going to a local seafood place. Will that do?"

"Admirably."

"Excellent." He hit the intercom on his lapel and said, "Rose? Would you tell the kids I'm ready for lunch, please?"

##

The drive out to the property was uneventful. They turned off of Highway 17 at a wide place in the road called New Haven and headed north. A few kilometers along they came to an open meadow-like expanse that stretched away from both sides of the road for three or four hundred meters. Smack in the middle of the field on the right, all the way back up at the edge of the trees and facing squarely west, stood the manor. Wendy gazed at it through the car window, memory overlaying past glory on the tarnished reality.

Two large trucks occupied the huge, circular drive that fronted the house, and half-a-dozen furs busied themselves in the front yard.

Mr. Fenton sat up straighter and watched the workers, a puzzled look sliding into place. "I wonder what this is all about."

Most of the area where the formal gardens had stood had recently been graded. New sod covered a good portion of it, with more going down as they watched. Mr. Fenton pulled up underneath the portico at the near side of the house, and they both got out. He was studying the activity in front of the house; Wendy was examining the house itself.

He handed Wendy a key. "I'm going to go find out what's what. You go ahead and look around the place." And he set off toward the truck, and the grizzled cat sitting in the driver's seat.

Wendy made her way slowly up the flagstone walk, taking in details. The paint was old, cracked, and peeling. A number of slates had come loose from the roof and crashed into the bushes. Egad, the bushes! Five meters high in places, obviously hadn't seen a pruning clipper in at least a decade. Some of them were dead, two had fire blight. Yuck. At least there weren't any broken windows, not on the front face of the house, anyway.

The paint on the front porch was distressed to the point of being gone completely along the outer edge. Several of the boards were loose and toward the north end a hole gaped where a dozen or more had been pulled up. The porch ran the full, expansive width of the house and five sets of French doors led into the front halls. The middle set opened into a foyer from which three hallways branched. The halls leading away on either side ran the width of the house, each perhaps twenty meters long, and connected with the smaller outer halls that ran along inside the north and south walls.

The main hall, a wide, glittering passage big enough for footmen to stand along both sides while the fancy company paraded up the middle, led straight toward the back of the house. Morcart, the butler, had been a fixture in that hall, much the same as the enormous ornate mirrors that faced each other half-way down. A short, chubby beaver with a perpetual grin on his face, he'd always had a piece or two of taffy on him somewhere.

The hall was close to fifty meters long and two stories tall with a double staircase climbing each side at both ends. On the ground floor ten doors, five per side, opened off this corridor into various parlors, dining rooms, a smoking room, a gathering room, a dancing hall, and the library. At the second story level the corridor got even wider, as it included a generous banistered walkway the full length on both sides. There were six guest suites per side.

Her memories came flooding in, turning the dingy, cobwebby walls to welcoming yellow, lighting fire in the deep green trim, adding violins and cellos to the silence.

_. . . . . . . She was eight, and hiding in her favorite spot behind a planter halfway up one of the front staircases where she could watch the musicians arrive and set up. The huge cases fascinated her. Uncle Julian hosted a chamber music recital several times a year, and always made sure to have one planned when the family came to visit. She watched and waited until they were all safely in the parlor, then slipped through the hidden door on the stair. She climbed down the short ladder and made her way along the narrow space between walls until it ended behind another secret panel next to the fireplace in the parlor. She eased it open a centimeter or so and watched the performers and the guests. She studied each one in turn, drinking in the high-fashion duds. But as she scanned the crowd, her Uncle spotted her the same instant she happened to look at him. She startled and pulled back, feelings of guilt, and fear of reproach foremost in her mind, but then he had given her a cautioning smile and a wink. She grinned to herself and stayed put. . . . . . . ._

She shook her head, chasing the ghosts back to their corners, and looked around with a more critical eye. The carpet runners were completely worn out. The hardwood looked to be in good shape, but it needed refinishing. A couple of spindles in the banister were hanging loose. It would need repainting. Hmph. The whole place would need repainting. And how many square feet of wall did _that_ entail? And it was all just so _dirty_. Small piles of trash and scattered papers lay about everywhere.

She looked into the first door on the left, the music parlor. The only instrument there was the antique baby grand piano. She smiled sadly as she walked over to it. A complex inlay of wood ran around the top of the case: ebony, teak, mahogany, and purple-heart danced an intricate swirl, ending in a Celtic knot immediately in front of the player. She raised the cover and looked at the keys. They seemed okay. She plunked out a few chords and winced. Wildly out of tune.

She left that room and went on down the main hall, looking into some of the doors, just cursory glances really. She noticed water damage to the plaster on the ceiling of the hall. At the back of the house the Main Hall intersected the rear hall; she turned right and headed down to the kitchen. There were storerooms and a large pantry on the right side, windows on the left, as she walked along. The kitchen was quite large, and had always been one of her favorite places. It took up the southeast corner of the first floor and had windows in both directions. Her uncle had allowed only a few modern affectations in the house, and the appliances here had been one of them. That, and the bathrooms.

She was surprised at how well-preserved the kitchen seemed to be. Of course it was very dirty, but nothing was obviously broken or missing. She went over to the stainless steel, industrial-size, eight-spot range and turned on the gas to one of the burners. It came immediately to life, the blue glow of the propane licking up past the grate. Well and good. She turned it back off. She moved to the sink and tried the water. After a couple of pipe-rattling _bumps_ it ran with a will, a little brown at first, but it cleared up quickly. When she shut it off, she noted that it didn't drip. This might have possibilities.

The south-facing window over the sink showed her the storage barn and two of the gardener's sheds. They looked okay. She walked over and peered out the east windows to where the horse barn had been. Mr. Fenton's use of the term "dismantled" was unfortunately accurate. It looked as if all the materials were still there, but it was just a big pile of lumber and hay. _Have to get that cleared away._

She wandered up the south hall back toward the front of the house. Oops. There _was_ a broken window. Smashed, even, with the glass still all over the carpet runner. Looked like someone had broken in, and recently. That gave her an uncomfortable chill.

She looked into the next door on the right where the huge old freezer had been. Good. Still there. It was off, though, and its door stood open. It had one of those latches with a handle on both sides so that no one could be locked in accidentally. Uncle Julian had insisted.

"Ms. Wylde? Wendy?" Mr. Fenton's voice came echoing distantly down the hall.

"I'll be right there," she called, and trotted the rest of the way up the south hall back to the foyer. As she passed through the Folly at the southwest corner of the house, she noted that most of the windows had been replaced with plywood. She stopped, then slowly walked over to stand in the middle of the large, round room, looking down at the threadbare area rug.

_. . . . . . . She was six. She and Millie were sitting in the center of the rug. They had emptied the doll house and arranged its furniture in lines along the patterns cast by the array of little diamond-shaped panes that made up the room's windows. Five small dolls sat at attention on various pieces of the furniture, and the girls were deeply engrossed in a complex game that involved moving the dolls in seemingly random configurations. Her dad and uncle wandered through the room, talking about – was it horses? – and Wendy felt obliged to shush them. Her father got an amused look on his face and came over to the girls, seating himself between them. Uncle Julian leaned against the wall, paws in his pockets, grinning, watching the drama unfold. Wendy's father observed in studied silence for a few minutes, then moved one of the dolls himself. Millie laughed and clapped her hands, then moved one of her own. Wendy moved one. Her dad moved one. Millie moved one. Wendy beamed at her father. He was so smart! . . . . . . ._

Wendy noticed a tear working its way through the fur on her cheek. She wiped it away, broke the memory off short, and moved into the front corridor. Mr. Fenton stood in the door, leaning against the frame, paws in his pants pockets, with a baffled look on his face. Wendy came up to him and stood in silence for several seconds.

"What?"

Mr. Fenton shook his head.

"What? What's up?"

He looked out at the yard. "It is the _weirdest_ thing. Those guys are from Emerald Lawn Care, over in Montpelier. They got a work order to come out here and grade the lawn flat and re-sod it. No name, no phone number, paid in advance with an electronic cash transfer. They have no idea about who or why, but it showed up in their system two days before your uncle died."

"Ehhhhhhh. That weirds me out. Didn't you say he was pretty much out of it the last two weeks?"

"Uh-huh."

She watched the workers for a minute, then turned back to the lawyer. "So. What do you know about the condition of the house itself?"

He pulled a small notebook out of his breast pocket and flipped it open. "Well, let's see. There are nine broken windows. Four of them are upstairs. There is water damage in five rooms that I know of, most of it because the roof leaks. Lots of the slates are broken." He looked up at her. "Personally, I'd remove the slate entirely and replace it with forty-year asphalt shingles. Or copper, but that's pricey." He went back to his list.

"The damage includes rotten floors in two rooms and drooping or broken plaster in six. Three rooms have old wallpaper that is now covered with mildew because of the damp. The plumbing system is in really bad shape. There are leaks coming in, leaks in the bathrooms, leaks under the kitchen . . . . . the well head leaks, too. You need a new well pump."

As he read, she mentally began tallying up the costs involved. The fur of her hackles began to stand up.

"The whole place needs to be stripped and repainted, particularly the exterior. The winters around here are not kind to paint. A lot of the clapboard on the north end of the house should be replaced. It's split and/or rotted. Many of the boards on the porch need to be replaced for the same reason. Two of the six chimneys have mortar damage and need to be re-laid." He flipped a page over in the notebook.

"And the wiring will have to be completely re-done. It's eighty years old in places, and none of it was run correctly. Really, it's something of a small miracle that the place hasn't burned down from an electrical fire. I guess your uncle was lucky." He looked back at the notebook and flipped one more page. "Oh, and the freezer doesn't work. And as you could see, the carpets are all ruined."

"Yeah. And the piano needs tuning." She thought it over as she toyed absently with a lock of hair behind one ear. "So what you're saying is basically: all-new plumbing, all-new wiring, all-new paint, some brick mason work, and a lot of carpentry."

". . . . . . . That's a pretty fair summation."

She looked at him expressionlessly. "And I would want to take on this white elephant . . . why?"

"The property has a lot of economic potential."

"A-huh."

She looked up at the chandelier. It could hardly be detected through the cobwebs.

"Ms. Wylde, the place has great commercial value. It would not take that much effort to turn it into a bed-and-breakfast inn, or even a small hotel. It is certainly large enough." He looked out the door. "That is what I'd do if it were mine." Pause. "If I had the time." This last sentence was spoken in a voice so low Wendy barely heard it.

"Time, sir, is not nearly as much at issue as is wherewithal. I have a nice balance in my savings account, and a small stock portfolio, but it wouldn't cover everything on that list. Not by a damn sight."

He waited for her to say something else. When she remained silent, he sighed, and said, "Well, if you don't want to keep it, that's your decision."

She turned to him with a slight frown. "What do you care whether I keep it or not? Seems to me if I let you handle the sale you'll make a nice little commission. If I keep it, we're done and you don't see another penny. What's your angle in this?"

"We went over that. You can't sell the house. If you take it, you live in it."

"Oh, yeah." _Stupid will._ "And if I don't take it?"

"The house gets boarded up and placed into a perpetual trust until one of the other relatives decides to move in."

"That sucks for you."

He looked _almost_ exasperated. "Ms. Wylde, in the short time I knew your uncle, I learned a great deal about him, and gained a great deal of respect for him. And one thing that he impressed on me is that it was vital the house remain in the family. Now, did he ever give me a full, satisfactory explanation of why he felt that way? No. But I'm left with the distinct feeling that there is more to it than is visible on the surface. My gut feeling, if you will, is that you will regret it if you don't keep the place."

"Well then how about explaining to me just exactly how I'm supposed to keep body and soul together on eight hundred a month."

He shook his head. "You didn't really read the will very closely, did you? You see, while he was . . . out of touch with reality, he cleaned out most of his accounts. But he didn't get them all. So he still had something to work with after he became more lucid." He held up one paw and began ticking off the points. "First, all the taxes will paid through a trust he had me set up. Second, he gave the propane company a check on this account that will keep you warm and toasty for at least ten years. Third, you have an open account with The Fixit Shop in New Haven Junction, so if anything stops working you can get it repaired for free." He dropped his paw. "He relieved you of the majority of the maintenance costs. There are really very few expenses involved. In his last years your uncle rarely spent more than half the amount he gave you in the monthly stipend, but then his needs were few. And, as I mentioned earlier, you could set it up as a bed & breakfast and make it a going concern, financially."

He waited in silence while she mulled over the proposal. She appeared to be warming to the idea.

"Do you have an accurate estimate of what it would take to get the place ship-shape?"

He caught the change in her voice and grinned. "So happens I do. But it's back at the office. Do you want to look around here any more, or are you ready to leave?"

Her face had taken on something of a faraway look. "Yeah. I mean we can go." She fitted actions to words and marched out the door.

##

Wendy tapped the figure at the bottom of the page. "So that's it, then. Somewhere in the neighborhood of a quarter-million."

"Not quite two hundred and forty thousand, actually. And that is assuming you contract everything out. You could save upwards of twenty or twenty-five percent through sweat-equity, were you so inclined."

She had done a lot of thinking since leaving the house, and the result was a slightly improved disposition. It was possible. Barely. And it would mean she would never have to balance someone else's books, or even _speak_ to a certain VP, ever again, a prospect that perked her up considerably.

"Okay. I've got about a hundred sixty thou split out in three CD's and another twenty-five in a mutual fund. I could liquidate almost a hundred and eighty-three thousand, given about two weeks. But from what you're telling me, I don't have to do that all at once."

"True, particularly if you do some of your own work. Really, except for the roof, which ought to be done first, you could work on it by yourself for a good while just cleaning and preparing. Probably wouldn't have to dip very far into your funds for at least a month, maybe two." He handed her another list. "These contractors have all checked out as reliable and reasonably priced. Fortunately we don't have too much of a problem with shysters around here."

She slipped the list into the folder with everything else. _I'm still close to sixty thousand short, though. This is going to be a stretch-and-a-half!_ But she smiled at Mr. Fenton and said, "I do appreciate all your hard work. Ordinarily I wouldn't consider taking on such a project, but I think I might have an angle."

"Really? And that would be?"

She tapped one finger against the tip of her muzzle and said, "How does Ash Creek Café sound to you?"

His answering look was dubious. "A restaurant? That far out in the sticks? You're joking."

"Not just a restaurant. A gourmet dining experience. Private rooms. Reservations only."

"Gourmet, is it? And who is the cook?"

"Me."

"You're a chef?"

"After a fashion. I have a fairly good range of dishes in my repertoire. Got a write-up in a local paper back home for a class I held on Cajun cuisine. Besides which, I enjoy cooking. You can't be a really _good_ cook unless you _love_ to cook. So even if it falls flat, I'll have fun."

His expression continued to indicate doubts about the idea. "Cajun, huh? Well. I'll be sure to give the Café a try when you get set up."

"Oh, not just Cajun. I do French, Italian, Tex-Mex and Indian as well. Plus I plan to take requests, particularly from the die-hard chili-heads in the area. I grow my own ultra-hots, and make my own sauces."

"Eeesh. That isn't me. The little jars of red-pepper flakes on the tables at the pizza place are too strong in my book."

She only smiled a little at that.

There didn't seem to be any reason to continue on that topic, so he placed both paws palm-down on the table. "Is there anything else you need to know? Now that we've _really_ covered all the sub-paragraphs in the will, I mean."

"Ha, ha."

"Any questions? Concerns?"

"Not at this time. I'll go over the numbers and whatnot tomorrow and give you a call Monday or Tuesday."

"Great." He stood and helped her with her chair. "It has been a distinct pleasure meeting with you, Ms. Wylde. I look forward to your moving to Vermont. And if there is anything else I can help you with, just say the word."

He walked her to the door where they shook paws goodbye. After she left, he slowly crumpled in on himself. He lurched over and slumped into one of the sofas.

His voice was a ghost of itself. "Rose?"

"Yes, Harry?"

"Would you be so kind as to get me one of my pills?"

She frowned. "For the pain?"

He nodded.

Her face showed her concern. "I keep telling you not to push yourself," she said as she left her desk. "Be right back." And she trotted off upstairs.

##

Wendy woke up bleary-eyed Sunday morning, not having slept well. Old memories had done battle with newer fears all night, stirring up some vivid dreams.

After her shower and the first cup of coffee, she got out the figures Mr. Fenton had given her. Going over them again left somewhat more of a sour taste, now that she had a little time and distance between her and the house.

_Sixty thousand. Who the hell am I kidding?_

She popped a bagel into the toaster and poured another coffee, then ambled out to get the morning paper. It was overcast, and the clouds looked heavy. She flipped the paper open to section B and found the forecast: showers likely. _Looks like the treadmill today. Maybe I'll go by the YMCA and get in some kick-boxing practice. Once they open. _She collected her bagel and sat down at the breakfast bar.

Kick-boxing. That brought her up short. _I'll bet they don't have a 'Y' anywhere near Ash Creek._ She looked at the will, picked up the cost analysis again and scanned it for possible shortcuts, then dropped it back onto the table as her shoulders sagged. _This is stupid. I'm just not up to it. Maybe a dozen years ago, before . . . . . ._

She stopped herself with a shake of her head. Absolutely no use going over that ground again. What's done is done, no use crying over spilt blood. At least she had healed. Physically, anyway.

She dropped her plate and cup into the sink and headed back to her bedroom, flipping on the radio on the way. Time to get dressed.

##

_** Monday 06 June 2016, 8:30am **_

Wendy's normal first-work-day-of-the-week routine typically included getting to the office about 6:30 so she could get caught up on the weekend e-mails and have her day outlined by the time things really got started at 9:00. But today she just didn't have the motivation. She wandered into the StrongArm building around half past eight, opting for the stairs to the fourth floor instead of the elevator. She stopped outside the landing, looking off down the long main hallway at all the little doors. Hers was at the end. A corner office.

Whoopee.

She popped the clasp on her clutch and plucked out her PA. Clicking it on, she called up the cost analysis she had scanned in, and ran down its length again. It was daunting.

Wendy looked up from her notes to see the V.P. of Finance, Mr. Rodin, heading down the hall toward her office, long nose well in the lead, his bare, skinny tail sticking straight out behind him. He didn't look happy, even for a Monday. She sighed, put the PA back into her purse, and followed in his wake back to her domain. _Terrific._ _The fur responsible for raising the supercilious stare to an art form._ She hoped beyond hope that the interaction would be short, because it would almost certainly be painful. They just about smacked into each other as he came hurrying back out of her door.

"Miss Wylde!" He had grasped her upper arm to help prevent the head-on collision, but quickly let go and took a step backward into the room. "Your financial report came back from the President. We've got a problem."

"Didn't he like the format? I thought he'd approved it." Though she could in no way be described as 'tall', Wendy crossed her arms and stood with one leg out to the side, careful to maintain as much distance between them as practical so as to downplay the difference in their heights. She had learned to do this via sad experience. If there was one thing Perrin "The Rodent" Rodin hated above all else, it was looking up at someone whom he considered an inferior. Which included pretty much everyone, on both counts.

He slipped his paws into the front of his waistband and rested his thumbs on top of the belt buckle. It was a huge, gaudy brass-and-chrome thing. "C.P. decided to include the benchmarking. And he wants the Qualitivity Team's projections factored in. Also, the divisions need to be color-coded."

"Whoa, whoa . . . . Benchmarking? You mean that stuff the Excellence Task Force generated? That was mentioned in the footnotes, but I didn't feel it was . . ."

"No, no, no!" He interrupted. "The interdisciplinary numbers."

Wendy paused to think for a second. "What, that out-of-company comparison write-up?"

"Precisely."

Now she _was_ confused. "But it isn't complete. Besides, if you'll remember, the consultant started with the two companies that had the least in common with ours. He never got around to doing a benchmark with other telecommunications outfits."

"Then you'll just have to extrapolate."

"With what? I can't just pull numbers out of the air."

His expression was utterly unreadable. "You're a talented accountant. I'm sure you'll think of something. I promised C.P. we'd have it for him on time."

**_* * Warning! Danger, Will Robinson, danger, danger! * *_**

"On time? . . . . . . This is about the takeover bid, isn't it?"

He frowned. "Well, of course. The entire biannual report will have to be re-done. It must be segregated by division this time, so C.P. will be able to tell which ones to keep and which to downsize."

_I hate that word. I hate it_. "But they published a memo stating the bid had been rejected!"

"They changed their minds." He sounded as if he were explaining some obvious concept to small child.

Wendy's hackles bristled. Under the _best_ of circumstances his raspy, squeaky voice grated her nerves raw. And these circumstances hardly qualified as 'best'. "May I ask when they want this?"

"Thursday afternoon," was the smug reply.

Her eyes began to smolder. "That's insane."

"Now don't be difficult. The Board of Directors scheduled the first-pass meeting for Saturday at ten. They want a day to go over the figures."

Wendy fixed him with a gaze that should have pinned his big, round ears back. "There has to be a good sixty hours worth of work involved. Then it's got to be re-printed."

Mr. Rodin's brow furrowed more deeply as he said, very slowly and deliberately, "He told me they could work off color photocopies."

Wendy leaned her head back against the doorframe, and closed her eyes. "Oh. Thank you. I feel _SO_ much better now."

"What? You have a problem with that?"

"Just that it'll take sixteen-hour days to get that report done by Thursday!"

"Then perhaps you should get started." He had his smirk going now.

She glared at him, her teeth grinding. She desperately wanted to remove that smirk. With an axe.

He headed in the general direction of the door. "Well, if you _must_ whine about a little overtime, just fill out a request for comp-time."

_This_ from the fur who left at five sharp _every day_? She rounded on him. "_Comp-time?_ Hell's bells, man, I've got an excess of two-hundred-and-thirty hours of stinkin' comp-time already, and we're only five months into the year!"

She began punctuating her points by jabbing her forefinger toward the floor each time. "I've only had _one_ day of vacation since Christmas, and _that_ was last Friday, and I had to work _fifty-five_ hours in _four_ days to get it! _**Screw**_ comp-time! I'll never live to see it." She shoved him out the door and slammed it behind him.

In the hallway, Mr. Rodin's face melted back into his normal completely blank expression. "_My work here is done,"_ he thought to himself with satisfaction. He straightened his tie, adjusted the suit coat fractionally, and marched back toward the elevators.

In her office, Wendy stood still a moment with one paw against her forehead, composing her thoughts, willing her jaw muscles to relax. She sighed, then moved around to the business end of her desk and pulled the thick interdepartmental-mail envelope out of her IN-box.

Ick. The report. She opened it and began leafing through the material, noting all the red lines and scribbles C.P. had added. The Rodent's scrawl was prominent as well. She strongly suspected that he had put the President up to this. The rat had never forgiven her for rejecting his advances. As if she'd had a choice. The mere thought of touching his fur made her want to wash her paws.

_How can one midget intellect generate so much trouble?_

She toggled the workstation's butterfly switch to the "on" position, then leaned back in her chair while it booted up, arms crossed, scowl in place. A scowl resided on her otherwise lovely features much of the time lately. She watched for a while as the system began running through its diagnostic program, then she glanced down at her purse on the floor beside her. She considered it for a bit, then picked it up and placed it on the desk in front of her. She watched it sitting there for at least three minutes as behind her eyes, hopes and urges and possibilities fought with preconceived notions and common sense.

The workstation beeped at her. She realized it was waiting on a password, and absently typed it in.

Opening her purse, she removed the PA, clicked open the phone listing, and called up 'Fenton'. She hit the auto-dial.

_What the hell. Fixing up an old house can't possibly be any worse than this. _

**End of Chapter One**


	2. Chapter 2 Aufwiedersehen  Part A

**Author's Notes:**

**I think perhaps I should have included a 'mini-playbook' at the beginning of Chapter 1, and for that I apologize. **

**One of my readers observed that the first chapter was over-long, and I believe she is right. ****I can be, without even any prompting, a willing victim of logorrhea. ****Henceforth, I will do my best to keep the postings under 6000 words, for reading convenience (this one is under 3000). That may mean that the chapter portions will be posted with slightly greater frequency.**

**Have fun, be safe, and do good work.**

**Concolor44**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Personae Dramatis_**

_Wendy April Vixxen Wylde (red fox, age 42, b.02 April 1974) - character owned by (and gratefully borrowed from) Chris Yost  
__Wendy is a beautiful, vivacious, and extroverted lady who has a history of poor decision-making and bad luck with relationships. Her marriage failed when her husband, Arthur Wylde, went insane and tried to kill her. She has a career with a large telecommunications firm in Pennsylvania, but is definitely not happy with it. She comes to Vermont for a fresh start, a chance to do something she considers worthwhile: perhaps her last chance at happiness._

_Chris Foxx (red fox, age 44) - character owned by Chris Yost_  
_Sabrina Elizabeth Mustelidae Foxx (eastern striped skunk, age 41) - character owned by Eric W. Schwartz_  
_Old friends of Wendy's (she has had romantic intentions toward both of them from time to time). Chris was Wendy's college sweetheart._

_Sabrina and Chris have five children:_  
_Samantha (13 – Built like a vixen, but inky black fur where her father's would be a rusty red),_  
_Daren, her twin brother (13 – Basically a skunk, but his fur is dark gray where a normal skunk's would be black),_  
_Endora (9 – In form a skunk, but her fur is black all over and incredibly soft, and she has no scent glands – named after Sabrina's mother, but everyone calls her 'Flossie'),_  
_Sean (7 – Looks like a fluffy fox, his fur is a darker-than-normal shade of brick red),_  
_and Alice (3 – Looks like a clone of her mother)._

_. . ._

_. . ._

_. . ._

Chapter Two (A) - Aufwiedersehen

**Real friends are those who,  
****when you feel you've made a fool of yourself,  
****don't feel you've done a permanent job.**

##

_** Saturday 11 June 2016, 4:30pm **_

Sabrina directed a feral grin at her oldest son as she held up a playing card. "Only one card . . . . Oooonly one card . . . . Ooooooonly . . . ."

"Yeah, Mom, I see it. Only one card. Don't get all wadded up. It ain't over yet." The young skunk studied the ten cards in his paw, trying to formulate a meld.

"Isn't." Samantha piped up.

He turned to his twin and spoke with an undertone of threat in his voice. "What?"

"Isn't. There ain't no such word as ain't."

"Oh, for cryin' out loud! I was making a literary reference! And, yes, for your information, there is. Ain't was a perfectly acceptable contraction for 'am not' during much of the eighteenth century."

"So what you said was 'It am not over yet.' That's even worse."

"Will you please just be quiet and let me concentrate."

"Oh, come on, Dare, if you haven't found a run of eight by now, you won't this turn. Just discard."

He grumbled as he tossed a card on the pile. "I hate Phase Ten."

"It was your idea to play," Sabrina pointed out.

"Don't remind me."

Samantha drew a card, considered her grouping, rearranged a few cards, laid ten of them on the table, and discarded the eleventh. "I'm out!" she said brightly, and bounced up from the chair. "Anybody want some more tea?" The black vixen went over to the wet bar on the other side of the family room to refill her glass, swishing her luxurious white-tipped tail.

Daren just stared at her and then at his own cards, his mouth open. "But . . . but you . . . aaaa ! !" He flopped his cards down and slumped in his seat, raking his fingers through his dark-gray mop of hair. "I hate Phase Ten."

Sabrina smiled patiently at him. "You said that already. And I still don't think it's true. You just hate to lose." She called over her shoulder to her daughter, "Yes, Sam, I'll have half a glass." Then she got a look of concentration on her face. "Samantha, do you know where Alice is?"

Samantha looked around, perked up one ear, and shrugged. "No telling where Captain Chaos might be, Mom. You know that."

Sabrina sighed and got up to look for her "least un".

##

The diminutive skunkette was almost within reach of her goal. She had pushed one of the kitchen chairs over to the china cabinet, stacked two thick phone books on its seat, and climbed from floor, to chair seat, to chair back, to the lowest of the open shelves, where her mother kept the everyday dishes. Now she was trying to pull herself up to the middle shelf, where resided the cookie jar. The cabinet leaned forward slightly, swaying from her exertions. Both elbows were hooked over the low railing along the front. If she could just get that one foot up and over. . . .

"Aaaalliiiiice ! ! ! ! !"

_ooops!_

Sabrina sprinted across the kitchen and snatched the would-be cookie burglar off the cabinet. Daren was not more than five steps behind. He just about lost it when he saw what his little sister had been up to.

"Alice, you are SO busted."

He called back into the den, "Hey, Sam, you gotta see this."

Samantha hopped into the kitchen and took in the scene with a glance. "Ay-yep. Destructo-baby rides again."

" 'Again'? 'Still' is more like it. I don't remember her dismounting."

Sabrina carried her youngest daughter back across the room, berating her for her intended thievery. "Child, can't you smell supper? We're having chicken pot pie in twenty minutes, tops! You _know_ you can't have cookies before supper, I _know_ you know that."

Daren observed sagely, speaking from the lofty height of his thirteen years of experience, "What she knows doesn't seem to have much effect on what she wants, Mom."

Sabrina shot him an exasperated look and walked out, the tiny three-year-old under one arm. Alice had been willful and headstrong practically from birth. They christened her "Destructo-Baby" at the tender age of ten months, after the incident with the turkey platter. She had crawled early, walked early and gotten into mischief about as soon as she was able. She kept both parents and all four of her older siblings very busy.

"Yeah, Ittybroo, she's like that 'Mean Widdle Kid' in the old cartoon:

'Ip I dood it, I det a whippin' . . . . . . . I dood it.'"

He looked at his sister, a pained expression on his face. "I have asked you politely not to call me that anymore."

"What? Ittybroo?"

"YES!"

"But I don't use it in public. And it's soooo kee-yooot."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "You might forget yourself. And if my friends ever hear you say it . . ."

"What?"

"I'll have to _hurt_ you."

His twin stuck her tongue out at him and flounced out of the room.

The phone rang. Daren ambled over and squinted at the caller-ID: _Unavailable._ He picked up the receiver. "Foxx residence."

"Chris, is that you?" It was a female voice.

"No, this is Daren. Who is this?"

"Well, gee, Dare, I'm insulted you don't recognize my voice!"

It clicked. "Aunt Wendy?"

"Right the second time!"

"Nunh-uh. I only made one guess, so there can't be a second one, right? Besides, _you_ thought I was my Dad."

She laughed. "I concede to your superior logic. Is your mother around?"

"Sure, lemme get her." He held the receiver away from his muzzle and shouted, "Mo-o-om!"

He got no answer.

"MO-O-O-OM!"

His younger sister, Endora, stomped into the kitchen from the den. "Will you please be quiet! I'm tryin' to read in here."

"Hey, Floss. Aunt Wendy's on the phone and wants to talk to Mom."

"She went to the laundry with Alice." The solid-black skunkette leaned up against the wall by the door and cracked her book back open. A voracious reader at nine years old, she was thoroughly addicted to the written word, and particularly smitten with high fantasy. If it involved dragons, heroes, or magic she loved it.

"Well, would you go get her, please?"

Flossie ignored him.

"Floss?"

"What?"

"I did say please."

"Oh, all right." She made her way out of the kitchen, heading down the hall to the back of the house, still reading.

Presently, Sabrina picked up on one of the extensions. "This is Mrs. Foxx."

"You just never get tired of the sound of that, do you, ducks?"

Sabrina grinned. "Hi, Wendy! What's up?" She heard Daren hang up the phone in the kitchen.

"Well, the sky, the price of gasohol, the salaries of Senators, the…"

"Stoppit, stoppit, stoppit! Let me rephrase that." She paused, thinking how to word it just right. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Okay, you got me." Sabrina could hear her smile. "I'd like to have you two over for dinner some night next week. Is there a particular evening that works best for you?"

"Dinner at your place? You the cook?"

"Well, yeah. Who else?"

"I'm there! You after a weekday night?" Sabrina queried.

"Yah. If you can get a baby-sitter."

"That really isn't a problem anymore. Samantha and Daren are thirteen now. They can manage the other three." She thought a minute and said, "Wednesday or Thursday would be good for me. I don't know about Chris' schedule, but I'll call him now and give you a ring back. Okay?"

"Call him? Where is he?"

"At work. You remember, he got promoted a couple months ago? He's been going in about every other Saturday to do the personnel reports. Just for a few hours."

"Ah. Okay, then, I'm on my mobile. Just let me know when. I've got something special planned."

"Special, huh. How special?"

"Very special."

"Special in what way?"

"In a very special way."

"Wennndyyyy…"

The vixen laughed. "Just tell that chili-head husband of yours to Teflon-coat his tongue. My first crop of habañeros came in, and they've outdone themselves."

"Oooooo! Cajun! He'll love that!"

"No, no, no, no. Cajun uses cayenne and its relations. Habañero is used in central Mexican dishes."

"Whatever. I know I won't be able to eat much of it regardless.

"Just takes practice, dear heart."

_Dear heart?_ "Uh-huh. Well, let me call Chris. Be talking to ya." Something occurred to her. "Wait a second. What's the occasion?"

"It's a surprise."

Sabrina made a _hmph_ noise. "You sure are a wellspring of information today."

Wendy gave a low laugh. "I promise it'll be worth the suspense, howsabout that?"

"Oh, okay. Bye, then."

"See ya."

Sabrina hit the FLASH key and the autodialed Chris' cellphone. One ring. . . . Two rings . . . .

"This is Chris Foxx."

"Hey, Sweets."

He grinned. "Hey there yourself, Kitten. To what do I owe the honor?" He scooted the report he'd been preparing out of the way, settled his lanky self comfortably into the chair, and tossed his feet up onto the corner of his desk.

"You can thank Wendy."

_Blink, blink._ "Oh, yes?"

"Oh, yes. She invited us to dinner."

_That_ got his attention. "Kewl! What, where, and what time?"

"That's why I'm calling you, silly. She left it open. Pull up your schedule and see what weeknight is good for you."

"No sooner said, Babe." He opened his calendar and checked for late meetings. "Looks like Tuesday, Wednesday, or Thursday. No, hang on, Thursday I have a big lunch thing . . . and you'll believe me when I say I want to have a good appetite for whatever Wendy's cooking."

"That's a roger, Cap'n!"

"What _is_ she cooking, by the way? Or did she say?"

"She mentioned something about asking you to Teflon-coat your tongue."

"WOO-HOO! Cajun!"

"No, it's something involving those awful habañeros."

"Hey, even better. Maybe I should bring a couple of towels."

"I don't know why you would want to put something in your mouth that you have to wear rubber gloves to prepare. You can't possibly taste anything but heat."

"Baloney. I love the taste of habañeros. You just have to build up a little resistance, that's all."

"Huh. Baloney at _you_."

"No, really. Once you get past the heat you can begin to enjoy all the different nuances and variations between chilis. There's a whole world of flavors from smoky to fruity to . . . "

"Yeah, yeah, you've said all that before. I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now."

"Don't knock it 'til you've tried it." He grinned. "That seemed to apply to my Boy Scout skills if I remember correctly."

"Stoppit, you." She tried not to blush as she looked around to make sure none of the kids was listening. "We can talk about that later."

"Promise?"

Her voice lowered to a whisper. "You're making me blush!"

"Can't I just make _you_?"

She dropped the phone to her side. _What am I going to __do__ with that man? Fifteen years into the marriage, and he's still just as goofy over me as the first week we met._

"Kitten?"

No response.

"Ohhhh, Wifely?"

She put the phone back up to her ear. "Are you gonna behave yourself?"

His grin returned. "Oh, absolutely."

"Good," she said, "Then which night?"

"Which night for what?"

"Chriiiiiiis!"

He considered. "Really, either night would be fine.

"Okay, then, let's make it a Wendy Wednesday."

Pause. "Eewwwwwwwwww."

She chuckled. "You know you bring these puns on yourself."

"It _really_ isn't incumbent upon you to take advantage of _every single_ opportunity."

"Heh. It's my turn."

He nodded. "Point conceded."

"Thank you. I'll be good now."

"Kitten, you're _always_ good."

Her smile broadened. "You know, I really think I should let you get some work done."

"Awwww."

"Off with you, boy. Back to the salt mine."

"I love you anyway." He made his reply as sultry as he could.

"Goodbye."

"I love the sound of your voice, you know."

"Goodbye, Chris."

"Your voice inspires me to greater . . ."

"GOODBYE, CHRIS."

"Bye, Dear. See you tonight."

"You nut."

"_Your_ nut."

"For which I am ever grateful. I love you!"

"Love you, too!"

She broke the connection and called Wendy back.

##


	3. Chapter 2 Aufwiedersehen Part B

**Author's Notes:**

**In this section we get further insight into the workings of Wendy's psyche.  
Also seen are Chris and Sabrina's opinions on sex.  
Feel free to comment when you get done.**

**Also, the suggested soundtrack for this section is "Train Wreck" by Sarah McLachlan.**

**...**

**...**

**...**

**_Chapter Two (B) - Aufwiedersehen_**

##

_** Wednesday 15 June 2016, 6:30pm **_

_Bing-Bung!_

Wendy went to answer the door. She looked through the peep-hole, only to find that an enormous green eye was staring back. She opened the door. "Hi, guys! Come on in."

"Hey, Wendy!" Chris stopped three steps into the room and held his head up, eyes closed, while taking a deep whiff of the aroma filling the room. "Whoa."

Sabrina's eyes widened as well. "Wow, Wendy, that smells incredible. What is it?"

Wendy gave an experimental sniff at the air. "My guess would be . . . food! Of some sort." She smiled at them both while closing the door, and indicated the living room. "Have a seat. Dinner won't be ready for another fifteen or twenty minutes. Can I getcha somethin' to drink?"

"Whatcha got?"

"Well, I've got some wine chilled to go with supper, an' a few Coronas . . . "

Chris chimed in. "Hey, it's Mexican, right? Gotta have Corona."

"Ahem." She concentrated and slowly ticked off the items on her fingers. "I've got sodas, orange juice, tomato juice . . . "

Sabrina and Chris looked at each other and snickered when she said that.

Wendy looked back and forth between them. "What?"

Chris' expression betrayed naught but the purest innocence. "Nothing. Pray do go on."

Her mouth twisted a little. "You two don't _hafta_ be so mysterious with th' inside jokes."

Sabrina insisted, "No, really, it's nothing. I'll have a soda. You got root beer?"

"Yep. What'll you have Chris?"

"Make it two."

"Comin' right up." She gave them a wink and sashayed out to the kitchen. Sabrina noted Wendy's outfit: tight, dark green slacks and a filmy, multi-layered, cream-colored sleeveless top, cut low. The ensemble did little to disguise her positive attributes. Wendy worked hard for that body, Sabrina knew, and with excellent results. She was still one of the most comely specimens of vixen-hood around. She had her hair up, too, in a very becoming braid, and a large orchid in place behind one ear. _She's dressed to wound, at least. Wonder what the deal is with that?_

Chris and Sabrina went over to the living room area and sat down side by side on the couch. Wendy's apartment had an open, airy layout, and was very tastefully decorated. It managed to be elegant and homey at the same time. The Foxx's had helped her move in several years back, after her divorce, and Wendy had done some nice things with it.

Chris crossed one leg over the other knee and put his arm around Sabrina's shoulders. "Did you notice the table?"

"Huh? What about it?"

"Look at it."

Sabrina studied the settings. The light dawned. "Those are paw towels, not napkins."

"Pre-zactly."

"Thoughtful of her." She snuggled in closer. It was then that she finally noticed the music. It was turned down very low, more of an atmosphere than an effort at entertainment. Wendy had splurged on a full-sensory-array sound system the year before. The music was omni-directional and reproduced _exactly_ as it had been played. She was quite the audiophile; as far as she was concerned, "fuzz" was a four-letter word.

"Is that an organ?"

Chris looked around, trying to see what Sabrina was looking at. "Is what an organ?"

"The music, silly."

Chris concentrated. "Woosh. I can hardly hear that. Can you hear it all right?"

She furrowed her brow at him. "Your hearing isn't going, is it? Foxes are noted for their sharp ears, you know." The frown transformed to a grin. "If you go deaf, they'll jerk your fox license."

"Eh? Say what? Speak up dearie, I don't have my ear-horn with me."

Wendy reappeared, bearing a tray of drinks. She set it down on the coffee table and picked up one of the glasses, then took her place in the stuffed chair across from the couch. Chris and Sabrina took their drinks.

Sabrina looked narrowly at Wendy's choice. "What's that you've got there?"

Wendy was in the middle of taking a sip and waited until she had swallowed to answer. "Mudslide."

"Doesn't look like a mudslide."

She waved one paw languidly. "It's my own version thereof. I add some crushed ice and a scoop of Rocky-Road ice cream to the kahlua an' frangelico in the blender, an' then stir in a half jigger of rum." She took another sip. "Smoooooooooooooth. Very."

"Sounds good," Sabrina observed. "I might have to try one after dinner."

"Say, Wendy," said Chris, "what's that classical piece you've got going back there? It sounds kinda familiar, but I can't place it."

Sabrina sent him an oblique look. "Maybe if she turned it up some?"

He winced.

"It's Saint-Saens. One of his organ things." Wendy leaned back in the chair and stretched. It was . . . an interesting demonstration. Sabrina and Chris gave each other a furtive glance. _What's she up to?_

"So, Wendy . . . what's your 'special' news?" Sabrina's question was cautious.

Wendy swirled her drink around in the glass, looking at Chris. "You'll fin' out Monday anyway. Why spoil th' surprise?"

"Because I like being spoiled?"

That brought a smile. "Okay. I'm quitting."

"WHAT?" The response was a duet.

"Yep. I'm outta here."

"You're leaving StrongArm?" Chris was incredulous.

"That's th' general idea."

"But you said you were going to retire from there! I thought you'd gotten all that wanderlust stuff out of your system!"

She swung one leg over the arm of the chair and sipped her drink. "Guess not."

Sabrina got a clue. _That is __**not**__ her first drink!_ "Who are you going to work for?"

Wendy tilted her head and smiled lopsidedly. "Me."

"Come again?"

"Oh, assuredly."

Chris sighed, frustrated. "I mean . . . what do you mean? You hanging out a shingle as a CPA?"

"Nope. Movin' to Vermont."

"VERMONT?" The duet again.

She looked at them, impressed. "That's pretty good. Can ya do it ever' time?"

"Cut the balloon juice, Wendy, you're not really going to Vermont, are you? What's in Vermont besides trees?"

She thought about his question. "Aren't trees enough?"

Sabrina tried a different tack. "What brought on this decision?"

Wendy stared down at the floor for a few seconds, then said, "I guess it was a com'ination o' thinks … uh, things." She looked at her glass and carefully set it down on the table, still half full. "My Uncle Julian died, see, an' he lef' me a piece of property in Vermont, and y'know I never have really much liked bein' an accoun'ant much, an' then they hired The Rodent last year and he's my boss, and I hate him, I mean really hate him, like I can't stand even thinkin' about workin' for him for another week, and Fenton says I can make it a bred & bikkfast . . ." She paused briefly for a deep breath. "I mean bed & breakfast, and the kitchen's still in good shape . . . I guess that's it."

Chris and Sabrina sat there with their muzzles hanging open. This was close to the top of their "Things To Never Worry About Because They Aren't Going To Happen" list.

Sabrina was very concerned. "Wendy, are you sure about this? How long have you thought about it?"

"Well, I went up ta see th' place . . ." She paused again and grimaced slightly. "The property. It's pretty. The house is run down, but I think I can make a go of it." She got a determined, yea an unpleasant look on her face. "An' if I have to go through _one more_ meetin' with The Rodent, I'm gonna bisect his smug face with a letter opener. A dull one. . . . . . . . And I don' really wanna go to jail just now, and killin' him might still be considered a mishdemeanor in this state."

"Wow." Chris was silent for a minute. "You know, I'd heard some stories about that guy, but I didn't really put much credence in them."

"Kiddo, you don't know th' quarter of it. Gets my blood pressure up just thinkin' about some of the crap he's pulled."

"Well, gee." Sabrina was momentarily at a loss. "What part of Vermont is this place in?"

"The west. Not too terrible far from Ticonderoga."

A buzzer started nagging them from the kitchen. "Oopsie! Can't let stuff burn!" Wendy got to her feet, albeit a little unsteadily, and trotted out of the room.

They looked at each other. Neither said anything for a minute.

Sabrina spoke first. "Well. Whaddaya know about that?"

"I don't know what to think. I guess she wants us to be happy for her. Gotta admit, though, it's pretty odd, and pretty sudden."

"Yeah."

They heard a loud clunk from the kitchen, and Wendy's voice saying, "Woops!"

Sabrina started to get up until Wendy called, "No problem, ever'thing okey-dokey!" She began humming loudly.

"I wonder just how many of those mudslides she had before we got here."

Chris shook his head. "Quite a few, knowing her tolerance for alcohol. This is _not_ like her. Something weird about this whole setup."

Wendy came back in carrying a large tray, and went over to the dinette. "First course says 'Eat up!' guys." She set the tray in the center of the table and then stood by her chair expectantly, and not swaying _too_ badly.

Chris and Sabrina got up and came to the table, each taking a chair. Chris waited while the two women seated themselves, then took his chair.

Wendy giggled. "Ever the gentlefur." She gave Sabrina a big wink. "You got yourself a keeper there, girlfriend."

Sabrina and Chris _really_ didn't know what to make of Wendy's behavior. They had never known her to be drunk in all the time since her divorce, and only a few times before that. They both wondered what could have upset her so.

Wendy pulled a wine chiller up next to the table and extracted a bottle from it. "Here ya go. Let's celebrate. Live a little!" She picked up the corkscrew and held it in one paw while holding the wine in the other. She looked at both objects in confusion for a few seconds, then smiled over at Chris. "Would you mind doin' the honors? I don't remember how t' work this fool thing." She passed him the wine.

Chris twisted the screw in and popped the cork out. Then he poured everyone half a glass.

Wendy picked up her glass. "Thanks, luv."

Her state of insobriety had distracted Chris to such an extent that he really hadn't paid much attention to the contents of the serving tray. He decided to just play along and see if he could get some idea about what was running through her mind. He examined the food and his face came alight.

"Rellenos!"

"Sure thing, luv. Thought we'd start with poblanos, somethin' Sabrina here could handle." She gave the skunkette a sidelong glance. "We'll work our way up to th' rough stuff after while."

_Was that a double-entendre?_ Sabrina was not at all sure she liked the sound of that. But she did like chili rellenos, and Wendy's were particularly good. She scooped one out onto her plate, and the other two followed suit.

For the next few minutes the only sounds heard were munching noises and brief exclamations of delight. When the rellenos were gone Wendy brought out a small chef salad for each of them.

The food seemed to steady her by several degrees. Near the end of the second course she was no longer slurring her words, and the conversation had turned decidedly pleasant. Chris and Sabrina were feeling much more at ease.

Wendy then served a complex dish involving flour tortillas, molé sauce, salsa, pickled tomatillos, serrano peppers, and a mixture of sauteéd chicken and onions. It was delicious, but Sabrina was fanning her mouth before she was through.

Wendy was sympathetic. "Dear heart, I left the peppers on the side so that you wouldn't have to eat them. Your fella here is a member of the 'Pain Is Good' club, but I don't expect you to hurt yourself just to be polite!"

Chris agreed. "Yeah, hon, I'll be happy to take them off your paws, as it were."

She had her tongue hanging out. "Well, you're the one alwayth telling me I thould build up thome rethithtance." She helped herself to another scoop of the yogurt that had been supplied for that purpose. It cooled the fire nicely. "How long does that take, anyway?"

"Depends, babe," said Chris. "Some furs never really have any trouble with it. But it can take years." He popped another serrano into his mouth and chewed with evident relish.

The next, and penultimate, course was manzana peppers stuffed with a mixture of ground meat. It smelled heavenly, but when Sabrina leaned forward for a better sniff her eyes smarted. She pulled back and looked over at Wendy. "Dare I try it?"

Wendy tapped a finger against her nose. "Actually . . . I think you probably ought to pass on the pepper itself. But try a little of the stuffing, you might be able to enjoy it. Just get a little, though, just in case."

Chris set to with a will and was shortly mopping his brow with the paw towel. His eyes were watering and the skin of his ears glowed a bright red through his fur. "Great stuff, Wendy!" He had to pull out his kerchief to wipe his nose. "That'll get the old sinuses cleared out." He snuffled every other breath.

Sabrina had found the stuffing to be remarkably good, but it was almost too hot to eat. She doused it liberally with the yogurt and forged ahead. "This is wonderful, Wendy!" She looked closely at one forkful. "Is that chicken? It doesn't quite taste like it."

"Nah. It's rattlesnake."

Sabrina held the fork motionless, never taking her eyes off the uneaten bite. Chris grinned at her, undeterred, and continued eating. Sabrina looked up at Wendy (who couldn't quite manage to keep a totally straight face), decided she was joking, and resumed her meal.

"Anybody up for dessert?" asked Wendy a few minutes later. Chris had eaten the manzanas that Sabrina had set aside, and both of them were sweating quite freely.

The meal, though extensive, had not been at all heavy. Her guests were a bit surprised to find that they were not that full. They nodded. Chris said, "Bring it on!"

Wendy returned from the kitchen bearing three bowls of ice cream. She served her guests and then set a tray bearing a variety of toppings in the center of the table. She pointed to each in turn. "Okay, this is your standard hot fudge." Sabrina promptly copped the jar and poured some on her ice cream. "This is strawberry. This is pineapple salsa, but it's only a little hot, and dynamite on ice cream, flavor-wise. This is 'hot-scotch'. It's a butterscotch-scotch bonnet sauce. It's pretty hot, but again, it's awfully good." She followed Sabrina's lead and poured a little of the hot-scotch on her ice cream. "And this," and here she picked up the remaining jar and paused dramatically, "this is habañero jelly." She set it back on the table with a flourish and plopped herself down in her chair. "It's some I made myself from my last batch of peppers. They were particularly fiery. It's easily the hottest stuff I ever tasted." She looked at Chris with what might be called a smirk playing around her features. "I don't normally offer a dare to anybody when it comes to hot food, but you're an exception." She leaned forward. "I dare you to put one teaspoon of that stuff on your ice cream, and finish it!"

He grinned evilly, picked up his spoon, and snickered. "You're on!"

Wendy got up and headed for the kitchen. Sabrina began eating her ice cream. "Oooh." She slowly lowered the paw holding her spoon to the table, her eyes closed. "Whoa. That's home-made. French vanilla, I think. Mmmmm." She resumed her attack on the dessert.

Wendy came back and presented Chris a measuring spoon, and his eyebrows went up. "Got to be that exact, do we?"

"Just for the record. A teaspoon of _this_ is kind of a lot, as you will see."

Chris poured the agreed-upon amount of the jelly-from-hell over his ice cream. He stirred it in briefly and then scooped up a generous portion with his spoon. Sabrina watched, a look of worry on her face, as he put it into his mouth and swirled it around.

He dropped the spoon.

His eyes got absolutely huge. He swallowed, not without difficulty, and began panting. He shook his head. His tear ducts kicked into overdrive; he could barely see. His face turned a deep red. He smacked the table with both paws, tongue hanging out, and shook his head again.

"Holy . . . " His voice cracked. "Holy . . . " He got up and stumbled into the kitchen.

Wendy looked worried, and called out, "You okay in there?" The only response was the sound of the freezer door opening. Sabrina had finished her dessert, so she got up to check on him. She found him with his snout buried in a box of Neapolitan.

She patted his shoulder. "Well. Since I never said 'Don't do it' I can't really say 'I told you so'. But you ought to have known better."

He looked up at her, tongue lolling out, ice cream covering his muzzle, sweat dripping from his fur in several places. His voice was raspy. "You could have put a live grenade in my mouth and pulled the pin and the result would have been the same." He stuck his face back into the box.

Wendy sauntered into the kitchen and leaned up against the doorjamb, her own bowl in one paw. "I believe I did say it was the hottest stuff I'd ever tasted." She had another spoonful. "Didn't I?"

He looked up. "No lie. That goes for me, too." He panted some more and then ran his tongue around inside his mouth. "The fire seems to be abating. A little." Pant, pant. "Of course, all things are relative in that respect." He set the container on the counter. "Sorry about your ice cream. But strong measures were indicated." He leaned back against the counter, breathing heavily. "Y'know, I've had habañeros before. I've never, and I mean _never_, had any come _close_ to being that hot. Are you sure you didn't zap it with capsicum extract?"

"Cross my heart," she said, tracing one finger over her chest in an 'X'.

He shook his head again. "Wow." He peered around her into the dining room. "How much did I leave?"

"Oh, you don't have to finish it. I never expected you to. Heck, my reaction was more demonstrative than yours. I was stomping the floor, pounding on the cabinets. That stuff is vicious. Now if you have it in really tiny amounts, it's good. But they have to be really tiny." She set her bowl on the counter and moved over to the freezer. "I think now would be a good time to make you two a mudslide apiece."

##

Sabrina was halfway through her third drink, and feeling extremely relaxed.

Wendy had moved the coffee table back, hauled out some really big pillow things and arranged them on the floor to make a kind of conversation pit. It was quite comfortable, and in the following hour and a half they managed to cover most of the background that had prompted her to move. She had been unusually forthcoming with information about her visits to her uncle as a child, an atypical situation, given her normal reticence concerning her past. She didn't like to dwell on unpleasant things.

They learned quite a bit about the place she'd inherited. Erection had begun some time during 1874 and continued for most of the next seven years. No expense had been spared in its construction: pink and green Italian marble for the foyer, decay-and-insect-resistant cedar for all the framing, huge beams and rafters, local granite for the foundation, slate from England for the roof, teak and mahogany for the parquet floors, Venetian cut crystal window panes and chandeliers, and on and on and on. Architecturally daring, the house was considered a behemoth, even in that overdone, gilded era, but during the Gay '90's Ash Creek Manor became a more or less obligatory stop on the New England social circuit. The house's original builder/owner had absolutely stunk of old money, and entertained lavishly and happily for many years, before his death in 1911. His son continued the tradition until 1929, when Black Tuesday put a very decided stop to all that. With the crash, the family fortune vanished, as had so many others', and having decided life held little allure for one of the nouveau poor, he put a bullet through his skull. The house shortly ended up in the paws of one of the smaller lending institutions in the Northeast, and there it had stayed for most of thirty years, until her uncle bought it. No one else had wanted the thing. It was just too big.

"Uhhmm, Wendy . . . ." Sabrina had a question that had wandered somewhere off to the side of her brain, and she had to hop over a couple of fences to retrieve it. "Okay, yeah . . . . This Fenton guy, is he gonna like, show you the ropes and stuff on this bed & breakfast deal?"

"Oh, I don' know as how it'll be s'much showin' me the ropes as maybe jus' bein' there ta kinda, y'know, be moral support." She giggled. "M'cheerin' section."

Chris had been more careful with his alcohol than had his wife (and _way_ more than had Wendy), and was meditating on what he had learned. It still sounded to him like an awfully big chunk to bite off. He tossed out a question of his own.

"Well, then, let's say that everything works the way you have it planned, no hiccups, no inclement weather, da-dee-da. How long will it be, realistically, before you can start making any money with the place? Real money, I mean."

Wendy had to think hard. Her thinker was missing on a cylinder or two, thanks to the high-test fuel she kept adding to the tank. "That'd be . . . uhhh . . . seven, eight, maybe nine weeks? I'll hafta look at m'notes." But she made no move to get up, only smiled benignly at him.

"And you're leaving in . . . two weeks? Yeah, Wednesday after next, you said." Chris shook his head for the umpteenth time. "Wow. It won't be the same with you gone."

Sabrina reached over and took Wendy's left paw in her right. "We're really gonna miss you, girl! You've turned into sort of an institution, y'know. The kids'll just flip, 'specially Sam. She'd lots rather discuss fashion and clothes and that sorta thing with you than with me."

"Yeah, Wendy," added Chris, "and we can't let you go without a party or something!"

Wendy had her head resting sideways on her pillow. She looked back and forth between them, studying them, the wheels obviously turning as she considered what Chris had said.

She got an adrenaline rush. _This is it! _She sat up, leaned forward slightly, and clasped his left paw in her free one. She pulled in a deep breath and gazed levelly at them both, depending more than somewhat on the liquid courage she had imbibed, and spoke as clearly as she could.

"Yes. I think a party _would_ be a good idea." Another deep breath. She felt dizzy. "And I think it ought to start . . . now." She leaned closer and pulled each of their paws up to her cheeks, her eyes on the floor. "And I know exactly what kind of going-away present I'd like. If you don't mind." She turned both of their paws over to kiss the palms and then glanced up at them. "It would mean a lot to me."

**_[Now here, Gentle Reader, is where it really pays to write in a third-person-omniscient format. Wendy's unsubtle proposition struck each of her guests with almost physical force. The resulting chaotic mental storm is presented below, although the actual trains of thought tended to jump their tracks rather quickly, and many of the ideas and reactions were not nearly this well-organized._**

**_C: Oh, crap! . . ._**

**_S: Eek! . . ._**

**_C: So that's why she got sloshed . . ._**

**_S: That's right! She's bisexual . . ._**

**_C: What was she thinking! . . ._**

**_S: She's holding my paw so tight . . ._**

**_C: She's serious, too . . ._**

**_S: Oh, man, I don't want to hurt her feelings . . ._**

**_C: One of my long-standing fantasies, to boot . . ._**

**_S: She knows I'm straight, what does she think she's doing? . . ._**

**_C: She had a threesome planned all along . . ._**

**_S: Did Chris know about this? . . ._**

**_C: I wonder what Sabrina thinks of that . . ._**

**_S: Chris could not have known about this! . . ._**

**_C: I can't do that to Sabrina . . ._**

**_S: She can't be trying to hurt us! Can she? . . ._**

**_C: I really wish she hadn't brought this up . . ._**

**_S: Would it be such a big thing? . . ._**

**_C: What would that do to our marriage? . . ._**

**_S: She's been such a good friend . . ._**

**_C: Tempting offer . . ._**

**_S: Zig Zag always said . . ._**

**_C: Two for one . . ._**

**_S: I'd enjoy it . . ._**

**_C: She's my wife for goodness sake . . ._**

**_S: But how could I? . . ._**

**_C: Made her a promise, dammit! . . ._**

**_S: Can't do that to Chris . . ._**

**_C: Won't hurt Sabrina, no matter what . . ._**

**_S: Just can't! . . ._**

**_C: Won't . . ._**

**_We now resume our regularly-scheduled broadcast, already in progress.]_**

Chris and Sabrina looked at each other for about three seconds, then back to Wendy. She was obviously in a position of extreme vulnerability, and couldn't meet their eyes.

In unspoken agreement, they moved over next to her and put their arms around her, each one resting his or her head on one of Wendy's shoulders.

Chris began. "Wendy, I'm awfully flattered that you think that much of me, of us. And . . . well, you know we love you. But . . . "

Sabrina picked up there. "But we've got an exclusive relationship. I belong to Chris. He belongs to me."

Wendy started to shiver.

Sabrina hugged her and continued. "Oh, girl! It isn't that we want to hurt your feelings or anything, heavens, no! It's just . . . "

Chris took Sabrina's free paw in his. "It's just that whenever you have a relationship, and you add sex to the picture, you get a different relationship. There is a bond between us," and here he was looking straight into his wife's clear, blue eyes, "a permanent bond, and sex is part of that bond. It isn't a part of any other relationship that we have. It's . . . well, it's just too personal, too much a part of what makes us a couple. And I think that if we brought someone else in on that level, it would diminish what we have."

Wendy was crying. "I'm s-s-sorry. I'm really sorry. I was . . . j-just . . . " She couldn't complete her sentence. Her emotional ship had fetched up on a reef.

Sabrina and Chris held her tightly, rocking gently back and forth. "We know," said Sabrina, low and calm, soothing her friend. "We know. And we do love you. Too much to want to hurt the friendship." Her own tears were beginning as well. She looked over at Chris and saw that he was in the same state.

Wendy's sobbing had advanced to that stage where it would have to continue until she got release. Her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

"Stu . . . st-stupid . . . b-b-b-booze." That was all she could manage for several minutes.

Eventually she put her arms around them both. They all leaned back onto the big pillow as her crying jag ran its course.

They held her there for a long time, as long as it took.

That's what friends _do_ for friends.

**End of Chapter Two**


	4. Chapter 3 Bridges Burned Part A

**Gone Wylde**

by Clint McInnes

**Author's Notes:**

**And here we will see the results of Wendy's decision to leave her job at StrongArm. Her conversation, as it were, with Chris and Sabrina only served to strengthen her resolve.**

**Also, the suggested soundtrack for this section is "So Damn Beautiful" by No Silence.**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Personae Dramatis:_**

_Teresa Weidi (margay, age 30) Director of Furry Resources at StrongArm._

_Perrin Rodin (rat, age 48) Director of Finance at StrongArm._

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Chapter Three – Bridges Burned_**

**ALONE, **_**adj**_**: In bad company.**

- Ambrose Bierce, _The Devil's Dictionary_

##

_**Monday 20 June 2016 – 8:30am**_

Wendy poked her head into the office of the Director of Furry Resources and said, "Anybody home?"

Teresa Weidi glanced up from her paperwork and smiled, showing lots of teeth. "Weendy, hi! Sure, have a seat. Wot's ona yer mind?"

Wendy slid over and plopped herself down in one of the plush chairs fronting the desk. Teresa's office was fairly small, smaller in fact than that of her assistant, and decorated in a homey, low-key style.

Wendy stretched out a little and crossed her paws over her belly. "I love these chairs. I keep meaning to get some for my office."

"Yah, dey put my visitors at ease. You know I don't hold much truck wid psyching out de furs who come in here. I'm just doing my job, same as everyone else. No need to act like de big shot . . . ."

Wendy couldn't stop the slow smile that came over her. She could listen to Teresa's native-Brazilian accent all day.

When the margay had been appointed to the position two years ago, a significant percentage of the associates at StrongArm had bet against her. No FR Director had ever been under thirty before, much less a female, much _less_ a foreigner, and she'd had a stiff uphill battle. But her no-nonsense, high-touch approach to Associate Development, coupled with her keen nose for talent, had gotten her firmly cemented in the role in a matter of months.

Besides, anyone who got to know her found it nigh impossible not to like her.

Wendy looked her over. Teresa placed a high premium on her personal comfort and it showed in her choice of clothing for the day: a shapeless, sleeveless top and loose slacks (both white), a typical ensemble. It wasn't so much that she tried to hide the fact that she was female, she just never bothered to flaunt her stuff. And in Wendy's humble opinion, she could have gotten up to quite a bit of flaunting, had she been so inclined. Her almond-shaped eyes were enormous, luminous, and golden, the dominant feature of her face. The pattern on her thick, plush fur was a striking black-on-buff mottled stripe, and with those long legs, that loooong tail, and that trim, compact physique, she _could_ be devastating.

But that wasn't her style. Teresa was quite happy with her simple, direct approach to life.

"So what you come to see me for?" Wendy's gaze popped immediately back to Teresa's eyes. She realized she had been staring.

"I'm sorry, 'Resa, guess I'm a little scatterbrained today."

"Never know you to be like dat. You _always_ one togedder lady. Mus' be somet'ing heavy on yer little fox brain, yes?"

"You're right. There is." Wendy had made up her mind beforehand to just be straight with Teresa and get it over with quickly. She took a deep breath. "I'm turning in my notice, effective today."

If Wendy had expected to shock Teresa, she was to be disappointed. The FR Director's face passed into a look of sadness for a brief moment, then evened back out. "Yah. I'm not surprised. I been knowin' how dat rat fink of a boss you got been treatin' you. Kinda wondered when he'd finally break yer back. What'd he do?"

Wendy smiled in relief. She liked Teresa a lot, and knew that her leaving would make work for the Director in a major fashion. That had also been weighing on her mind. "It wasn't really any one particular thing, just the overall pattern. He never HAS treated me as a furson, much less an equal. He takes every opportunity to emphasize his imagined superiority. And he has trouble keeping his paws to himself." She stopped to think a minute. "Well, maybe I lie. That trick he pulled week before last with the semi-annual report for the Board could qualify as a back-breaker." She fixed a wry grin on her muzzle and winked conspiratorially at Teresa. "I considered turning in a report with numbers molded from one hundred percent pure air. But I just couldn't bring myself to do it."

Teresa laughed out loud. "Dat's good! You don't wanna go burnin' no bridges you don't have to."

"Yeah. Guess I'll be burning enough of them as it is."

"How's dat?"

"I have a going-away present for my boss. A little surprise."

Teresa looked dubious. "You not gonna do anyt'ing permanent to him?"

"Not physically."

She grinned. "Den can I watch?"

Wendy thought it over and shrugged. "I have no objection. If you don't think it will make you uncomfortable."

"Hey, Weendy, listen. I used to perform in Carnival. I don't t'ink you could shock me."

Wendy showed her teeth. "Great! Hey, maybe you could give me a few pointers, then . . . ."

##

_**Monday – 1:45pm**_

Teresa should be in his office by now. Wendy smiled in satisfaction as she stopped by the ladies room to check her outfit one last time. Critically, she surveyed herself in the long mirror. The fur-dresser had done herself proud, coaxing Wendy's long, buoyant headfur into a magnificent mane. It haloed several centimeters above the top of her head and fell around her in gentle waves to serve as a background for most of her torso. A black velvet ribbon was twined through it in a loose diamond pattern, to help keep it all behind her. The low-cut, sleeveless mini-dress was made of three layers of diaphanous silk that clung to her in soft folds. Its bold black and white diagonal stripe set off her red fur (not to mention the other assets) to good advantage.

_Payback is hell, Rodin!_

Wendy left the ladies' room and walked sedately down the third floor hall toward The Rodent's office, very much aware of the commotion she was leaving in her wake, grinning a little when she heard a couple of furs collide behind her. She stopped in front of the closed door (it was always closed – another of his rules) to take a deep breath, then opened it and stepped in. Teresa was sitting off to the side going through a stack of papers in her lap. Mr. Rodin was perched up on his huge, black, Moroccan leather "President's" chair.

The Rodent jerked his head up and snarled, "Don't you know you're supposed . . . sup . . . posed to . . . " He swallowed, noticeably. His eyes strained so far out of his head it appeared he had glued a pair of bloodshot ping-pong balls to his face.

"Hello, Perrin." Wendy's low voice slid smoothly over the distance between them and caressed his oversized ears. The fur behind them promptly stood up in response.

The fingers of her left hand brushed against the side of the doorframe above her. She rested her head lightly against that arm, her right arm akimbo, those perfect legs crossed at the ankle, one high-intensity knee aimed at his nose.

". . . . . . . . . knock." He just barely managed to squeak out the last word. Wendy had never, and I mean never, called him by his first name.

Teresa's eyebrows ratcheted up several notches. _Whoa. She's not kidding._

Wendy _peeeeled_ herself off the doorframe and sailed slowly across the high-pile carpet, every portion of her anatomy flowing, rolling, gliding, her tail following her in a precisely measured series of arcs. She had perfected that particular arrangement of motions several years previously, when she had felt the need to get a certain male's complete attention.

She came around to the side of his desk. Mr. Rodin's jaw went slack. His eyes were trying desperately to cover her entire body at once, and tended to fade in and out of focus abruptly. He felt he ought to say something, to try to regain some measure of control of the situation, but what he managed was, "Ehhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh . . . . ."

She paused momentarily, her left paw hovering just in front of her belly, to draw a slow, deep breath, then she _leeeeaned_ over, resting her paws on the desk's polished surface. She continued the motion until her face was within twenty centimeters of his, a dreamy smile playing across her muzzle, her eyes half-lidded.

"I brought you something, Perrin," she purred.

He gurgled.

Her gaze spiked him to his chair as Wendy reached into her cleavage and withdrew a small object, which she placed carefully in the center of the desk.

Mr. Rodin was barely able to tear his gaze from her long enough to glance at it, but when he saw it, he did a double take.

It was a green crayon.

His little hard-wired rat brain was not up to this. Confusion showed plainly on his narrow features as he looked back and forth between Wendy and the crayon.

"Uhh. What's that?"

"It's . . . a _crayon_." He could easily have gotten drunk on that wine-mellow voice.

"Uhhhhhhhh . . . . . . ye . . . yes. It's a crayon." He had to swallow again. "What . . . what is it for?"

"Weeelllll," and here she used one carefully manicured finger to roll the crayon a few centimeters his way, "it's for coloring."

She was looking straight into his eyes.

"And you can color me _gone_."

She smiled ear-to-ear, gave him a wink, turned on her toes, and with a flourish of tail walked briskly out of his office.

_Ohhhh, that felt good!_

##

Wendy was waiting in the FR Director's office when Teresa got back. The margay opened the door and stood there, one paw on the knob and one on the jamb, and looked Wendy up and down.

"Dayam, woman! I t'ought he was gonna keel over daid."

She came on into the room and turned to close the door, then leaned back against it, crossing her arms. She examined Wendy's attire more closely, and nodded.

"You sure do fill out dat dress in all de good spots. By damn, you don't look a day over twenty-five. Or even dat." She let her arms drop, walked slowly over to her desk and sat down, never taking her eyes off Wendy, who just sat at ease and smiled in a self-satisfied sort of way.

"He had it coming."

"Oh, I don't doubt dat, not for a minute. But if I'd had to give him CPR, I'd be takin' de cost of my shots outta yer vacation pay." Wendy laughed out loud at that remark.

Teresa pulled open one of her desk drawers. "Speaking of which, I figure you got nineteen days comin'. Took de liberty of makin' out a check. Didn't t'ink you'd be sticking around, you know what I mean." She held the check up and passed it over to Wendy, whose eyes widened in disbelief when she read the amount.

"Are you sure that's right? Sounds like _waaay_ too much!"

"Oh, you didn' know? You got dat promotion. Retroactive two mont's." The margay was showing lots of teeth again.

Wendy's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Promotion?" Then her muzzle curled up in a large vulpine grin. "Ah! Yes. Well, how about that? Good old Mr. Rodin. What a softy."

Teresa did a good job of keeping a straight face. "Yah. His payroll numbers were starting to look a little too good. Dis'll help fix t'ings."

"Heh. Little over ten grand. That'll get me moved in style, you bet."

Teresa leaned back in her chair and curled her legs up under her. The margay is the only cat species able to rotate its legs a hundred and eighty degrees at the hip, which makes the lotus position a snap. "Movin', eh? Where to?"

"Vermont."

She nodded slightly. "Nice place, Vermont. Been dere a few time. Hear it get pretty damn cold in de winter." She shuddered. "De cold aroun' here getting to be too much for me. I grew up in de interior, on a coffee plantation. Mos' furs t'ink it's bloody hot, but I liked it." She pointed a finger at Wendy. "You just might be de one dat gives me de push to leave. Been t'inkin' about Florida."

"You wouldn't want to go back to Brazil?"

Teresa made a face. "Not in de shape it's in dese days." She closed her eyes and put her arms behind her head, interlacing her fingers. "Got loony guerrillas and terrorists and dat kinda stuff goin' on all de time. Spilled over from Colombia an' Peru. Burned down my old plantation and de village wid it. Lucky my family already moved out. Dey in Rio now." She looked back at Wendy. "You ever been to Rio?"

"No. I got close one time . . ." She looked down at the floor as her voice trailed off. The memory was not one of her favorites. She shook her head. "No."

"You should go. De mos' beautiful place on dis round Eart'. You got mountains an' beaches an' fresh water an' salt water an' a million million flowers. Flowers like you not seen before. _Furs_ like you not seen before, too. Dere not a one in de whole town dat don' look good, 'pon my affidavit, an' de closer you get to de beach, de more fur you see." Her eyes were again closed as she daydreamed. "If de money dere was any good, by gum I would go back."

After a half-a-minute of silence Teresa sighed and unfolded her legs. "Weendy, you cleaned out yer desk yet?"

"What do you think?"

"I t'ink yer a hell of a lot smarter dan dat rat fink. He was headed down to yer office when I left his. I bet he's goin' t'rough your stuff right now."

"Like I care. The idiot. I wonder does he think I just woke up this morning and decided to quit?" She practically snorted. "As if I'd have left anything of import for _him_ to find."

"Good girl."

Wendy reached down and picked up her clutch from beside her chair, set it on her lap, and pulled a sheet of paper out of it. She gave it to Teresa. "If you don't mind, would you include this with the formal announcement of my resignation? I know you're obliged to e-mail everyone in the company, and apart from a certain rat I don't want there to be any doubts or hard feelings."

Teresa read over the brief memo, a smile forming. "Sure t'ing. Dis'll help a lot." She placed the memo on her note-holder beside her workstation. "By de by, who all you invite to de shindig Saturday?"

Wendy ticked off the list. "Let's see, I've got Patrick and Nancy Canid, Chloe Felis, those guys from Maintenance: Jim Procyon and Jim Castor, your secretary Marge, Dexter and his wife Angel, Ted Border, Koindo Alopex . . ."

"Ooooo! Dat consultant in Marketing? Didn' know you knew him! He one hot kettle, dat boy is!"

Wendy successfully repressed a smirk. She had had strong suspicions about Teresa's feelings in that quarter. "Yeah. So you noticed him, did you?"

"Notice? How can you miss a fox dat big? Especially wid dat white fur! Yah, I notice him." She stopped herself, and giggled somewhat self-consciously, then pulled her legs up onto the chair again and wrapped her arms around them.

Wendy waited until it was obvious there would be no further comment on the estimable arctic fox in Marketing, then continued her list. ". . . Cho Li Helar, Sarabeth Squirrel and her husband Kyle, Shonda Irbis, Ullania Lynx and that cute little mouse he _finally_ married, Miguel Herpailurus, and you. And Chris and his wife Sabrina." She went over the list in her head, and nodded. "That's everybody. From work, that is. I also invited a few people I know from the YMCA. Assuming everyone shows up, there ought to be around twenty-five of us there. Not so many that it gets to be a crowd, but enough to be interesting."

"An' you got de ballroom all night? De whole t'ing?"

Wendy nodded.

"Dat mus' be settin' you back a dollar or t'ree."

"Heh. No, not really. Gleeson owes me a favor. I am paying the band, though."

"Who you get?"

"It's a swing-fusion group. Call themselves 'Triceratops'."

"Yeah, I've heard of dem. Sound kinda like de Squirrel Nut Zippers." She got a look of anticipation on her face. "Bet dere'll be be some hot dancin', what wid Miguel an' Chloe along." She glanced obliquely at Wendy. "You know whedder dat Mr. Alopex is a dancer?"

Wendy kept her face pleasantly blank. "Why, no, I don't. Would you like me to ask him for you?"

A quick backpedal. "Ahh, uhmm, no, dat's okay. Don't bodder."

"Well, then," said Wendy as she stood up, "I'll just get out of your fur and be on my way." She waved the check in the air. "Got places to go and things to buy. And thanks. Thanks for everything."

"No prob, keed."

##


	5. Chapter 3 Bridges Burned Part B

##

_**Saturday 25 June 2016 – 5:45pm**_

Wendy's little two-seater Mercedes whipped into the parking lot just ahead of the band's step-van. She pulled up beside Gleeson's Lexus into one of the "Reserved" spaces near the front door, and watched as the van rumbled on around behind the building to the Service Entrance.

_Cool. Maybe I can help set up._ In her nineteenth year Wendy had done a brief stint as a roadie for a struggling rock band. The excitement of the concerts hadn't quite made up for the constant traveling and back-breaking stage work, so when the tour reached San Francisco she just stopped showing up. She fell in love with the city and stuck around for several months, until early '94 when she got the news about her mother. . . .

Her muzzle twisted in remembered pain. She leaned forward until her head rested on the wheel, as images of her mother floated unbidden into view. Small against the white sheets, small and so very thin those last days, but still cheerful, at least while Wendy was around. Still her biggest fan and supporter, even as her body shut down system by system. . . .

A tear surprised her when it splatted into her lap.

_Stop it!_

Wendy squeezed her eyes shut, then leaned back against the headrest and took several deep cleansing breaths. She sat there for a few minutes until she had regained control, shook her head, sighed, and got out of the car. She tried not to think about certain things unless forced to, and she was _determined_ to have a good time tonight.

Dark paneling lined the foyer inside the huge double doors, lit by a pair of flickering 60-Watt "flame" bulbs. The décor was ornate almost to the point of being tacky. The reception desk stood unoccupied. One side of the building was devoted to the restaurant, the other to the dance club, but at this early hour neither was open. She caught sight of herself in one of the tall mirrors that flanked the desk, and stopped to check out the reflection: the light-green peasant blouse contrasted well with the black mini-skirt, and she had plaited her hair into a single thick braid that lay across her left shoulder to hang down almost to her waist. _Girl, you're on top of your game tonight_. She turned right and pushed through the gilded door.

Gleeson had pulled a chair up close to the stage and was chatting with two of the furs doing the setup. They were just beginning to remove the drum set from its container. As she watched, another fur came in pushing a large case, rolling on its own wheels. She ambled over to get a better look, walking up silently until she was standing just behind Gleeson. He was being his usual loud self.

"Yah, you can patch into our sound system, no problem, no problem." He had his chair tipped back on its two rear legs and was waving his ever-present cheroot around animatedly, managing not to spill his martini in the process. The corpulent panda maintained any number of bad habits, a trait that endeared him to _very_ few of his acquaintances. He chased anything in a skirt (which had gotten him into trouble at least twice: once when she was married, and once when _**he**_ wasn't), held to several very bigoted viewpoints, and told the most outrageous lies with no regard for the consequences.

Wendy thought he was a hoot.

She leaned down until her muzzle was right next to his ear, laid one paw lightly on his shoulder, and said, "Hey, there!"

He lost both his drink and his smoke as he fought wildly (and successfully) to keep from falling over backwards. When he'd regained equilibrium, he whirled around to confront his antagonist.

"DON'T DO THAT!"

She personified innocence as she turned both paws up at shoulder level. "What'd I do?"

"Damn, woman! Tryin' ta kill me? Would it dock the devil's tail ta just walk up like a normal fur and announce yourself? Huh?" He heaved his bulk out of the chair, pushed his glasses back up his muzzle, and sloped around, muttering while gathering the cigar and the (fortunately plastic) drink glass that had held his martini. Then he sidled up next to Wendy, who stood there watching him, arms crossed, smiling. "Tell yeh what, wanna make it up to me? I got some ideas, baby." He'd noticed her outfit and was leering appreciatively.

"Keep 'em. I ain't buying today."

"Awww. Come on. Cut me some slack." He rubbed one paw over her shoulders and slid it down to her lower back. It would have kept going except that she twirled away laughing until they faced each other.

She shook a finger at him. "Now, now, Gleeson, I've got standards to maintain." Step, step, twist. She effortlessly avoided his grope. "And you've got a club to run." Swish, whirl, jog. She stayed just out of his reach. He was getting frustrated. "Besides which, this is my party. I've got hostess duty, remember?"

He lumbered to a halt, resignation stamped plainly on his bibulous features. Wendy blew him a kiss, then her ears perked at the sound of the door opening.

She caught sight of Chris and Sabrina as soon as they got inside, and hurried over to them, leaving the disappointed panda to his own devices.

"Hi, you guys! Thanks for coming!"

"Oh, Wendy, you know we wouldn't miss this." Sabrina hugged her briefly, and was surprised at how tightly Wendy held her. She pulled back slightly to look at her friend. Wendy's eye seemed a bit too bright, her smile a bit too forced. "What's wrong?"

Wendy cocked her head to one side. "What makes you think anything is wrong?"

_Hmmmm_. "Sorry. Radar jammed, I guess." If Wendy didn't want to discuss it now, that was fine with her. "Are we early?"

"Maybe a little, but I certainly don't mind. Come on, have a seat." And she led Sabrina into the room.

Chris finished a prolonged stretch-and-yawn he had begun when they walked in, and took a couple of steps after the pair. "What, no hug for me?"

Wendy's glance back at him was positively lascivious. "You can get _lots_ more than a hug. All ya gotta do is ask." She swung around to a position between the Foxxes and looped her arms through one each of theirs. Chris' look of panic lasted only for a second until he realized she was teasing.

He sure _hoped_ she was teasing.

He started over. "Um. Looks like you've got quite a production planned here."

"Well, you know, if I can't have the party I really want, I'll have to want the party I really have."

Chris and Sabrina glanced at one another behind her head, the same message in both sets of eyes. _Yeesh! Not again!_

Wendy steered them over to a booth-for-six against the wall and they plopped down. Chris took one whole bench, stretched out a little then leaned his head back against the paneling with a small sigh, eyes closed, one arm behind his head, the other splayed across the table.

Wendy looked at him, then at his wife. She gave a small tip of her head in his direction. "Burn out?"

"Nah. Promotion. He puts in lots of overtime, but he isn't getting to do nearly as much of the hands-on techie stuff. Y'know, the fun part of engineering? But there's a ton of paperwork. Now it's personnel problems, other furs' vacation schedules, reports out the yingyang, coordinating service visits . . . ."

"Sounds like you know his job as well as he does."

"Heh. I should. He talks about it every night."

Chris chimed in without opening his eyes. "You might consider including me in this conversation."

Sabrina patted his paw. "We aren't leaving you out, dear. I just didn't want you to have to strain your vocal chords."

He did open one eye at that, and caught the sparkle in hers. "I love you anyway."

"Of course you do, dear. It's in the contract."

He unwound one arm and snaked it under the table in her direction, thumb and forefinger in pinch mode. "Then I guess that means I have a license to do this."

His wife _eeeked_ and scooted back quickly while Wendy chuckled at them both.

Her head swiveled around at the sound of the door opening as Ullania Lynx and his wife Reba came in. She turned back to the Foxxes. "Scuse me, folks. Gotta mingle." She hopped up and bounced over to the new arrivals.

Sabrina looked at Chris and gave him a nudge. "So, what do you think? She really gonna pull it off?"

"Yeah. I don't think she has much of a choice, considering that little incident with her boss." He grinned large. "I doubt there's a single colleague in the company who hasn't heard the story in at least three versions. Rodin's days are numbered, you just wait."

"Breaks _my_ heart."

"That's pretty much the general consensus. He's managed to alienate practically everyone who has any contact with him except his own boss, and that's only because Rodin's mastered the art of sucking up."

"I can't believe a responsible CEO would fall for that."

"You'd be amazed, Kitten."

She smiled at him as he took her paw in his.

##

_** 8:25pm **_

Wendy's party was in full swing, and she judged it a success. _She_ was having fun, at any rate, and it was mightily obvious some of the others were, too. Chris (of course!) had staked out the buffet early on, only to have Dexter supplant him when he and Angel arrived a little before seven. The Jims got there a quarter of an hour later to complete the Gluttony Quartet.

Triceratops was _good_. The music was hot, the dancing moreso.

Some of Wendy's friends had dressed to the nines, but Teresa (uncharacteristically) had everyone topped with the hot little midriff-baring number she'd chosen. Wendy wondered where it had come from. There wasn't really enough of the shimmering green fabric there to call it a dress. The top section swung up over one shoulder, maintaining decency by the most tenuous of margins, while the lower portion swept from her left knee up almost to her waist on the right side. Wendy judged her claim of past performances in Carnival very believable. It was some show. And, as Wendy had observed previously, Teresa had what it took to pull it off. So to speak.

And yes, as it turned out, Mr. Alopex could dance. Could he ever. Teresa had all but monopolized him the entire evening, but oddly he didn't seem to mind. They whirled enthusiastically to the driving beat. He had doffed his coat early on, the black tank top he wore underneath emphasizing the results of his regular trips to the gym. Quite a sight, they were.

Wendy had danced a few times with Miguel, and a few more with Tomas Merced, the lithe weasel who taught kick-boxing and self-defense at the YMCA. But she found herself intrigued with the big, blonde badger who played bass in the band. During intermission she made so bold as to seek him out for conversation over a couple of beers, and her interest only deepened. His name was Jerry Strick, he was divorced, no kids. He designed websites and helped run an ISP. The band was really just a hobby, but it paid the odd bill. He had designed, built and flown (briefly) his own radio-controlled model airplane. She could tell that was something of a passion with him.

The band was re-forming on stage, so he had to get back to work. "But," he said, "I would very much like to continue our talk later, if you don't mind."

Wendy smiled broadly. "I'm not going anywhere."

He clasped her paw and held it to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers. "Til then."

Wendy just sat through the first couple of tunes, watching the band, a smile playing around her muzzle now and then.

After a while she noticed Cho Li standing by herself, watching some of the dancers. Wendy caught her eye and motioned for her to come over.

The tiny sun bear picked her way through the chairs and tables and stood next to Wendy. "Hi."

"Have a seat, Cho. Take a load off."

"Thank you." She sat, hesitantly, on the edge of the chair, regarding Wendy shyly. "I wish I could do ease as well you."

Wendy's puzzled look got her flustered. "I said it wrong. You are . . . in ease? With ease?"

"Oh! I am _at_ ease. Yeah, I guess so." She gestured around the room expansively. "Why shouldn't we be at ease? We're surrounded by good friends, good food, and good music. What's not to be easy for?"

Cho Li fidgeted. "This is not same to my home. My people are very . . . reserve. And all your friend are so . . . open?" Her delicate features bunched into a frown.

Wendy prompted, "Comfortable with each other?"

"Yes. You say it correct." She sighed. "I wish to have paid much attention at English classes."

Wendy patted her arm. "You do very well, Cho." She grinned. "Your English is one _helluva_ lot better than my Mandarin, I can tell you that."

"You are kind."

"You've been here, what, almost three months now?"

She nodded. "I am still not . . . what was the word you say? Comfortable? Yes. Not comfortable with Pennsylvania. It . . . is not as easy I hoped."

"Yeah, but you do a good job, though."

"Ah, that!" She fidgeted self-consciously. "That is easy part. Hardware is hardware, engineer is engineer. Math is universal language, no problem to speak it."

Wendy chuckled. "There are other universal languages, you know."

The frown again. "What do you mean?"

Wendy was looking over Cho Li's shoulder. "Maybe Ted can explain it for you."

"Ted?"

"Yah. Ted Border. He's been watching you all night, you know."

Cho Li froze. "What?"

Wendy rose to her feet. "I'm going after a drink. You want anything?"

Panic was rising in the little bear's eyes. "Ted? Really? Ted?"

Wendy winked at her. "Be right back." She passed Ted not two meters from the table and patted him lightly on the shoulder.

Cho Li never so much as twitched a whisker when Ted walked up and stood across the table from her.

The lean border collie cleared his throat. "Wahn shahng. Zen muh yahng?"

Cho Li's muzzle dropped open. She stared up at him. "What do you say?"

He repeated his greeting. Very nervously.

She giggled and put one paw to her lips. "You trying to wish me good evening?"

He nodded miserably. "Dway buu chee."

She put a paw out to him. "Oh, please don't be sorry! I think you very sweet to try." She indicated the chair next to her. "Would you like sit down?"

His relief was immense, and obvious. He sat.

Wendy was leaning up against the bar, watching them, when Pat Canid came up for refills. "Hey, wild woman."

"Ha ha. Hey, yourself." She turned to the tall Weimaraner with a grin. "How's Nancy doing?"

"Mighty damn glad to be out of the house and away from the triplets. Thanks for the invite." He looked around. "You're not dateless, are you?"

"Don't need a 'date' tonight. I'm hangin' with my buds." She elbowed him gently. "And enjoying the show."

"What show?"

She nodded her head toward the table she had lately vacated. Pat followed her gaze and got a huge grin on his face.

"Well, whaddaya know. I didn't think he'd do it."

"What?"

"Oh, that's right, you didn't know." His grin threatened to split his face. "Asian girls just tear him right out of the frame. He's been absolutely _stupid_ ever since Cho Li got here. I told him he ought to just ask her to dinner or something, but he kept on about how he was going to have to impress her."

"I think he did."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah. He walked up and started spouting Chinese or something. Charmed the pants off her." She looked more closely at the pair. "Well, not literally. Yet, anyway."

Pat hooted a laugh at that remark. "Naw. He's way too gooey over Cho to try anything." He collected his drinks. "Gotta get this back to the wife. See ya."

"Have fun," she called after him. "That's what you're here for."

##

_** 9:35pm **_

Angel, Reba and Wendy flopped down at one of the tables near the dance floor. All three were somewhat winded from their exertions. Dexter, Ullania, and Tomas were occupied with getting six drinks back to the table. The band segued to a slow number, and Chris led Sabrina out for some up-close-and-personal quality time. Two other couples soon followed.

The males returned bearing potables and doled them out to the ladies. Wendy noted that Reba was sipping a cola as opposed to her usual beer, and remarked on it.

"You brew your own, don't you?"

"Yeah, we've got a micro-brewery in the basement. Great stuff."

"Spoiled, huh? These lame 'lite' beers just don't cut it?"

"No, I like lite beer. Hardly ever met a beer I didn't like, ya come down to it."

Her husband spoke up. "She's more of what you'd call a gourmand than a gourmet where beer is concerned." Reba stuck her tongue out at him.

Wendy asked, "So what's with the soda?"

Ullania got a sparkle in his eye. "She's on a restricted diet."

Wendy raised an eyebrow. Angel looked over at the petite mouse curiously, then brightened excitedly. "Does that mean what I think it means?"

Ullania nodded. "She's due the last day of January."

There was much ooohing and aaahing and congratulations. Dexter said, "That's terrific! You two have been trying for a while, haven't you?"

"Seems like forever," answered Reba. She looked over at her husband and took the big cat's paw. He was grinning like a . . . well, you know. Reba looked back at Angel. "That biological clock was starting to tick pretty loud, too. I'll be thirty-two in a few months."

Wendy stopped short, her beer halfway to her mouth.

_Thirty-two. With child, and thirty-two._

That number reverberated around her head like thunder in a dry arroyo.

Her vision hazed over.

Time got a severe case of cramps.

_Thirty-two._

Ten years ago.

A lifetime.

Forever.

_Thirty-two._

When her world dissolved in her paws and slipped from her grasp like so many drops of quicksilver.

_Thirty-two._

As plainly as the glass she held, she could see the crib before her. Silent that morning. Unusually silent. The small form of her daughter, huddled under the blanket, not moving . . . .

Her glass clattered to the table, spilling its contents. She gasped, mumbled, "Excuse me," and stumbled off to the ladies' room, followed by five pairs of eyes in varying degrees of shock and concern.

Reba looked around at the others. "What did I say?"

##

Sabrina sat next to Wendy on the floor in the restroom. The scattered layer of damp tissues around them attested to the emotional storm the vixen was dealing with.

She was a basket case.

"Sabri-brina, it j-j-j-just hit m-me. I don-don-don't know what I d-d-did. It all just, just ca-came back all at . . . at once, all just, just together. . . ." The sobbing made it difficult to understand her.

Sabrina and Chris had spotted Wendy running to the relative solitude of the restroom, and Sabrina had followed her in shortly. Now she held Wendy and rocked her gently. "_Serious déjà vu going on here_," she thought. She had spent a lot of time doing exactly this ten years ago. With her own twins almost three at the time, Wendy's loss had made her all the more appreciative of what she had. It just didn't seem fair how some furs, through no fault of their own, always ended up with the cruddy end of the stick. That was Wendy, for sure.

The door rattled as Chris rapped on it lightly. "Everything okay in there?"

Sabrina called back. "We're fine. Just give us a few minutes."

"All right. We'll be right out here if you need anything."

"Sab-bri-brina?"

"Yes, Wendy, I'm here."

"Sabrina . . . I mi-miss her."

"I know. I'm so sorry, Wendy." _ Oh, Wendy! Too many stressors, from too many directions. _

"I miss Emily."

"So do I."

"Why did she ha-have to die, Sabrina?"

The passage of a decade did nothing to diminish the poignant agony in her voice. Sabrina hadn't had a decent answer for her back then, either.

"I wish I knew. I really wish I did."

_Please, God,_ Sabrina thought, _please spare me this kind of pain. I'm not as strong as Wendy._

"If I could just hol-hold her again . . . ."

Her friend could only grip her close and stroke her fur as the tears washed down.

##

Almost an hour passed before Wendy felt presentable enough to leave the ladies' room. She had her emotions back under rigid control, her face washed and brushed.

None of her guests had left. For one thing, they all wanted a chance to make their farewells and to wish her luck. For another, most of them were curious as to the nature of her outburst, and were hoping for some kind of explanation.

But Wendy wasn't about to admit what had really happened. She was ashamed of what she thought of as a relapse, and would've taken a beating before burdening the company with her old spooks. She simply picked up the festivities where she had left off, to the best of her ability. This had the unintended effect of making most of the other furs decidedly uncomfortable.

Nevertheless, she made the rounds, thanking everyone for coming, et cetera, glad to see you, so long, much happiness, blah, blah, blah.

But her heart wasn't really in it.

##

_** 11:05pm **_

Most of the guests had left. The band was starting to put away the equipment.

Wendy sat at the bar, nursing her third consecutive White Russian, and staring morosely at nothing. Gleeson had come up once and tried copping a feel, but the look she gave him nearly etched his glasses. He retreated quickly.

_What is the matter with me? Bawling in there like some damn schoolgirl._

_Well what did you expect, given the circumstances? Losing a child is a mother's worst fear. You're entitled to a little grief now and then._

_It's been ten years, for crying out loud! _

_And have you forgotten her? Forgotten her laugh, her hugs, the way she smelled? It could be a hundred years. It would make no difference._

_Shut UP! It's over, woman! _

_Do you really think it will ever be 'over'?_

_She's gone, he's gone, there is nothing you can do to change that. So just pipe down, suck it up, get some stiff back in your spine, get up off your ass, and move on. Get over it._

Ah. Get over it. Good advice. And, like most free things, worth exactly what she'd paid herself for it. She gulped down the rest of her drink and rested her forehead on one fist.

Sabrina walked up and took the stool next to her. Wendy quickly straightened up and smiled pleasantly. The skunkette put a paw on Wendy's shoulder and inclined her head forward. "You aren't fooling me, girl. I know you just a little bit better than that."

Wendy leaned back slightly, a contemplative look on her face. "Do you, now? And just what is it that you know?"

"That you don't need to be by yourself tonight. Why don't you come over to our place? You can use the guest room. It would thrill Samantha and Flossie no end."

Wendy's mental wheels began spinning so fast their axles were smoking. She looked at her friend for a few seconds, and calmly replied, "What makes you think I'm going to be by myself?"

That set Sabrina back. Disconcerted, she put her paws in her lap. "Oh. Well, ummm. . . . Okay. I, ah, didn't know you, ah, . . . had plans."

"But you know me better than that, right?"

"Ummm. Sorry. I didn't mean to butt in or anything, I just wanted you to, you know . . . . . . ."

Wendy leaned over and kissed her on the tip of her nose, eliciting a jerk backwards from the other fur. "Thanks, luv. I know you mean well. But it's okay, really. You two just run along. I'll be fine."

The kiss undeniably had gotten Sabrina's attention. "Okay, Wendy, as long as you're fine." And she scurried back over to Chris.

Wendy watched their joint exit with undisguised amusement. Even with all the years they'd known each other, it still didn't take much to pull a blush out of that girl.

She straightened her shoulders. _Okay, Wendy, time to see about turning that little white lie into some semblance of truth._

She hopped off the stool and marched over to the stage. Jerry had already gotten his instrument back in its case, and was helping with the drums. She called him over.

"Whatcha got planned now?"

"Planned? Umm, nothing. It's kinda late to be starting another gig, don't you think?

"You up for a cup of coffee?"

He grinned a little. "Always. You know a good coffee house around here?"

"You bet."

He liked her straightforward style. And to be brutally frank, he liked a LOT of other things about her as well. "Excellent! I'll have to go back home for my car, but that won't take . . ."

"Oh, don't worry about that. I'll get you home."

"Oh. Okay." And he thought to himself, "_This has definite possibilities_."

He let the other band members know where he was going, then followed Wendy out to the parking lot. Chris and Sabrina were standing near her car, and greeted her and her new friend when they walked up.

Sabrina said, "I just wanted to make sure you . . . didn't need anything else?"

Wendy patted her cheek. "I'm fine, luv. Never better. Call you tomorrow? Great. Ciao."

She and Jerry got into her sportster and sped off.

Chris hugged his wife as they watched the Mercedes disappearing down the street. "I'm not buying it."

Sabrina shook her head slowly. "Nah. Me neither. But what can you do? She's a big girl." She put her arm around Chris' waist as they walked over to their vehicle. "I just hope she has enough sense to call us if she really does need help." She paused while Chris opened the door for her, then looked up at him. "I worry about her."

He kissed her gently. "Yeah. Me too." And he kissed her again. They held each other close for a while, supremely content in their love, then they got in the car and headed home.

##

Wendy drove in silence for a few minutes, long enough to make Jerry a little antsy. He felt the need to kick-start the conversation, so he said, "This coffee house, is it one you're familiar with?"

"Oh, very."

"Good." Another really long pause. "Umm, they have a good selection?"

"It'll do."

"Ah. Okay." She thumbed the wheel controls, turning the radio on and tuning it to a classical station, the volume very low. She said nothing more. He was getting anxious. He wasn't really used to holding up _both_ ends of a conversation. "Soooo . . . is it far?"

"Not much farther." And the silence stretched back out. He wondered what was wrong. He studied her out of the corner of one eye, but could pick up no clues from her expression. As far as he could tell she might as well have been alone in the car.

He grasped in desperation at one more topical straw. "What's it called?"

Other than a very small, slow smile, she remained expressionless. "It's called 'My Place'."

He blinked at her a few times and settled back into his seat, his mind racing. "_Yes, ma'am!_" he thought, "_Very definite possibilities!_"

##

_**Sunday 26 June 2016 – 7:20am**_

Wendy stirred, turning her head on the pillow. Not even half-awake, she reached over to the other side of the bed, but there was no one there. Then she caught the aroma of frying bacon and snuggled back under the blanket, content, drifting back off to sleep. It had, after all, been a _really_ late night. She smiled as some of the events replayed in her mind's eye. Jerry was quite . . . enthusiastic.

Several minutes later he walked into the bedroom carrying the breakfast tray, and put it on the nightstand. He eased down onto the side of the bed away from Wendy and studied her, watching her breathe for a minute. He reached over and lightly tickled one ear, then jerked back as she tried to bat his paw away.

Her eyes opened. "Oh. You're not a mosquito." She took note of breakfast and sat up.

"Uhnnh! Well, no." He got an eyeful when Wendy's cover slipped down. She didn't seem to notice.

They got the plates and cups arranged satisfactorily and Wendy set to. Her eyes lit up. "You didn't mention you could cook."

"Mainly just breakfast-type stuff. I never get into anything fancy." He watched her obvious enjoyment of his offering with a calculating eye. "Glad you like it."

"Hey, any chance for breakfast in bed is fine by me."

After half-a-minute she looked at his untouched plate. "Lost your appetite?" She grinned at him. "My morning face made you queasy, didn't it? Put you off your feed."

He was shocked. ". . . . Queasy? Not hardly." He regarded her semi-clad state with approval. "I think distracted would be a better word. Hard to keep my mind on anything else." He gazed steadily into her eyes. "You are double damn incredible. You know that?" He did start eating then, but slowly, not letting it interfere with his appreciation of her form. "I don't think I've _ever_ had as good a time in the sack. How'd you do that tail thing?"

She waved one paw airily. "Pure, natural talent. Some of us got it, some of us don't." She winked at him. "Besides, I've had a long time to practice."

He chuckled. "What, you get started when you were eight or something?"

She paused for several seconds, eyes locked on his, as she realized the subject had not been broached before. "No. I guess you could say I'm older than I look."

"Oh, then that would make you . . ." he considered briefly, looking at the ceiling, "twenty-eight?"

She smiled crookedly, one eyebrow askew.

"I'm right, right?"

"Wrong."

"High or low?"

She snorted. "Now you're just flattering me."

"No, really!" _I was sure she was younger'n me. Must be low, then._ "Okay, ummm . . . thirty-three. But that's as high as I go."

"Well, now, Jerry, how old are you?"

". . . . . . I'll be twenty-nine in a few weeks."

_Oh-ho!_ That explained a lot. She shook her head slightly and reached over to pat his cheek. "You're sweet. And I appreciate it, but I've never been particularly vain concerning my age and I'm not about to start now." She took one of his paws. "I'm forty-two."

"No way."

"Yes, way."

"Okay, then, no freakin' way!"

She regarded him levelly. "And why would you say that?"

He was flustered. "I know lots of people in their forties! Some of 'em are in pretty good shape, but cripes! Some of 'em are geezers! You _can't_ be that old." He shook his head decisively as a lewd grin crept onto his face. "You've got way too much stamina for one thing."

She sighed. "You're a nice kid, Jerry." But he _was_ a kid, at least from the standpoint of maturity. In retrospect, their few attempts at conversation the previous night pointed that out in no uncertain terms. At the time she hadn't given it much thought, being more interested in the physical dimension of the relationship. It surprised her to think that a thirteen-year gap would make that much difference. And maybe it wouldn't with someone else. But there it was. He'd been a fun bed-mate, but that was about all it could be.

She sighed again, moved the plate off her lap and slid out of bed, then padded over to the bathroom. "I'm gonna take a shower now." She peered over her shoulder at him. "I wouldn't mind having someone scrub my back, if it's no trouble."

He was struggling with her revelation as he stared at the flawless melding of curves that joined her shoulders to her waist to her hips. Was she for real? If so, how did she do it? Drugs? Surgery? Magic?

No, don't be stupid.

She could _not_ be forty-anything.

She was just playing mind-games with him. Maybe she was trying tactfully to get rid of him. Yeah, that was probably it. He frowned darkly to himself. Well, he could play along. For now. He wasn't finished with this lovely young piece yet, not by horserace.

"Yeah, sure, whatever you say, Wendy." He disrobed and followed her into the bathroom.

End of Chapter Three

Chapter Three – Page 11 of 11


	6. Chapter 4 Lost and Found Part A

**Gone Wylde**

_by Clint McInnes_

**Author's Notes:**

**It's a darn good thing the comely vixen has a lot of stamina. That old house is huge!**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**_Chapter Four – Lost and Found_**

**It is certainly true that money can't buy you happiness.  
****But it can make you **_**highly**_** selective of your misery.**

##

_** Monday 27 June 2016, 12:02pm **_

"Hooooo, boy."

Wendy couldn't make up her mind where to begin. There was just so _much_ of the house to work on and so _little_ of her to do it. She slumped against the wall at the bottom of the southernmost rear staircase and gazed up the two-story-high length of the Main Hall. It extended for over forty meters to the foyer door from where she sat. Forty meters of dirt and trash on the floor, grime on the walls, cracks in the plaster, and peeling paint. Picking up a small triangular scrap of wood from the debris lying about, she took aim and flung it up the Hall. It skittered to a stop well short of the entrance.

She'd finished a walk-through tour of the first floor nearly an hour ago and then retired to the kitchen to prepare a small lunch while she thought it over. Sated now, she resumed her meditation.

_Okay, girl, the salient facts in the case are:  
__There is a good three or four tons of garbage in the house, just on this floor.  
__The nearest trash service is too far away to want to bother with Ash Creek.  
__The movers will be here with my stuff in two days._

Yep. Same scenario. Lunch hadn't altered it appreciably.

_So that leaves me with a couple of options. Either I go out and hire a cleaning crew, a big cleaning crew, or I don't worry about most of the house for now._

She knew, though, that the first option's viability was questionable. Between her present lack of extra monetary units and the Inn's more-or-less remote location there wasn't really much chance of getting anyone to come. Which meant that she would have to pick a room, two at most, to get cleaned and ready by Wednesday. And that meant one of the second-floor suites, since none of the rooms on the first floor was set up as personal living quarters.

Having narrowed the choices down to an actual decision gave her a little kick of energy. She got up, dusted off her backside and tail, and hopped up the stairs to scope out the alternatives. Heck, she had twelve to choose from. No problem.

##

_** 12:25pm **_

Okay. Fine. Make that three to choose from. Just looking in on the Receiving Rooms had shown one with a gaping hole in the floor, two with plaster coming off the ceiling, three with damaged, mildewy wallpaper peeling off, and three of the four end-placed units missing windowpanes. But the other three had possibilities.

The north and south halves of the second floor mirrored each other across the Main Hall. Each of the twelve suites had the same layout, approximately shotgun style: first the Receiving Room, then off of a short, narrow hall, the Servant's Room to the left and the Bath on the right. A rear door led out the end of the short hall to another narrow corridor (known as the Servant's Walk) that ran the full depth of the house, parallel to the Main Hall. Ostensibly, this hallway's purpose was to allow the guests' personal retainers discreet but easy access to the rooms for which they were responsible. Its more frequent use at times, however, had been to facilitate trysts. The Retiring Rooms lay directly across the Walk, and were fitted with two sets of large windows, each. A wider hallway (the Upper Passage) bisected the Walk, running from the Main Hall to the north and south walls respectively, and dividing the eastern three suites from the western three on each side. A large, ornate spiral stair graced the outer end of each of the Upper Passages, extending from the first floor to the third. Heavy curtains partitioned the Walk to give a little added privacy to each suite. At each east end, a much smaller spiral staircase led down to the first floor.

She stood in the Retiring Room doorway of the second suite from the front on the north side and took stock. The ceiling was in decent shape. The walls, and especially the crown moldings, were heavily draped in cobwebs. Dusty ones. They completely obscured a large mirror on the opposite wall. An oval braided-rag area rug (that looked like it might be salvageable) covered much of the floor. An armoire stood between the door and the bedstead, an old four-poster crouching against the left wall, with no mattress and the canopy in tatters. To her right, two stuffed wing-chairs flanked a low table over which was suspended a floor-mounted five-globe chandelier. A very dead potted plant that may at one time have been a schefflera occupied the near right corner. And a thick layer of dust coated every horizontal surface.

_Yeah, this'll do._

She got busy.

##

_** Tuesday 28 June 2016, 9:32am **_

Wendy leaned back for a good look at the entire chandelier, causing the tall step-ladder to shift uncomfortably. She looked around the entrance foyer for something to hang on to, thought better of it and climbed down. From solid footing, it appeared she had gotten all the dust and cobwebs off the elaborate fixture. There certainly was a heap of the stuff on the floor under it. She walked over to the wall, flipped on the switch and had to blink against the blaze of light. _Whoa. Now that's an improvement. _She stood and admired it for a bit, then looked at her watch._ Right. Time for a break. I need a V-8._ She pulled a cold can of the spicy vegetable juice from the cooler by the foyer door, and sat down in the deacon's chair beside the south staircase to enjoy both her drink and the sparkling light. The stuffing beneath the worn velvet seat cover sighed to wafer thinness under her negligible weight. She shifted to try to find a comfortable position. _I guess I can call this progress. Got the suite clean yesterday, so I have somewhere to sleep. The dirt is coming off more easily than I'd dared to hope. That old fellow at the general store really knows his stuff._ She had stopped in at the hardware/dry goods/five-and-dime in New Haven Junction to get cleaning supplies and met the proprietor, an ancient raccoon named Quinn. The old Vermonter had been stereotypically terse, but helpful nonetheless. She'd left armed with two powdered cleansers, three different liquids, a spray, and assorted brushes, sponges, buckets, and mops. The ladder had come with the house.

Resting her back against the chair and gazing at the flight of stairs across the hall, another thought occurred to her. _Hang on just a tick. There's a hidden door in the wall up there._ She closed her eyes and concentrated, trying to remember its exact location. Setting her drink can on the floor, she stood and walked to the other side.

The wall side of the staircase had a paneled wainscot, up to roughly a meter above the steps, that matched the railing. She counted stairs as she climbed. ". . . seven, eight, nine. Okey-doke, if memory serves, the latch ought to be . . . about . . . yeah, here." Her fingertips found the minute recess in the carved wood and pressed in, levering the lower half of the handle out of the wall and into her grasp. It was difficult to turn, but she persisted and was rewarded with a _very_ loud creaking as the doorway pivoted outward. "Whoa, nothing 'secret' about that. Hafta get it oiled." She peered in. "Hmph. Smaller than I remember. Or I'm bigger than I remember." She stooped over to step into the needle-thin passage. Why the builder had added these little Gothic refinements, no one knew. No one living, that is. But Wendy was glad for them. She thought secret passages gave a house character.

A few minutes of squirming and squinching got her to the small panel beside the fireplace in the music parlor. _Geez, next time I take the scenic route I'll carry a flashlight._ Ancient dust and grimy spiderwebs festooned her coverall.

The tiny hidden corridors had played a major part in some of her childhood games. Crawling through this one gave her the bug to find the rest of them. "The kitchen. It was . . . in one of the tall closets. The broom closet?" She headed down the hall in that direction as she pondered. Hide-and-seek took on a whole new dimension when hidden avenues were added to the equation. And her playmates had been just as good with them as she had. Better even.

Millie and Sarah. Those were their names. The cook's children. Mrs. . . Mrs. . . Throgmorton! Yes, that was it. Jovial Cornish hedgehog lady, quite stout, marvelous cook, never seemed to mind that the number of cooled tarts she placed in the pie safe was significantly lower than the theoretical yield stated in the recipe. She obviously expected a bit of pilfering.

Of the dozen or so secret corridors in the house, she remembered that the passage leading from the kitchen to the Servants' Hall upstairs was one of the largest. She had to remove a dozen years' accumulation of junk and dust before the rear wall of the closet came to light, but when it did, Wendy had no trouble getting the hatch open. The cook had never kept anything in this space except a couple of brooms. In the economy of her impeccable British logic, that is what a broom closet was for. She'd had ample shelf/closet/cupboard space available so that things could be stored "where 'ey mought go" as she would say.

Wendy poked her head into the dark recess and received a goodly layer of cobwebbing across her snout for her trouble. Scrambling back and pawing off the sticky, dusty mess, she remembered her promise to herself about the flashlight.

"Right. And I'm pretty sure I brought one with me in the van." So saying, she headed up the south hall to the porte-cochère.

Returning several minutes later, she armed herself with a broom and headed into the strait. The tiny space measured perhaps a bit over forty centimeters wide, and cut immediately to the left. She had to work on the cobwebs that formed a thick covering around the doorway, but a meter-and-a-half in they tapered off dramatically. When Wendy got to the narrow ladder four meters from the door, she decided, after shining the light around above her, to leave the broom where she stood. She stuck the flashlight in a back pocket and started climbing.

The vertical space was extremely narrow, and made for slow going. Wendy could just barely bend her knee far enough to get her foot on the next rung, but she did make it to the top in less than half a minute. Unfortunately, the flashlight snagged on a projecting stud, fell out of her pocket, tumbled down the ladder, and went out when it hit the floor.

_Dammit! Dark as a bucket of tar in a coal mine. Bet the stupid bulb broke, too._

She stood there at the top of the ladder for a minute, considering which direction to go. She knew that the exit on the second floor was ahead of her on the right, but couldn't remember how far. On the other paw, she certainly didn't feel like going back down that ladder either.

_Fine. Forward into the breach, then._

She moved cautiously along the low channel, maintaining constant contact with the right wall. After only a few steps, her paw ran over something stuck to the wood that rustled when she touched it. She jerked back, not knowing what to expect, then tentatively felt the object. Paper? Roughly the size of her paw. And it seemed to be stapled to the wall. Working a couple of fingers under it and tugging it gently released it from its bonds. She puzzled over its shape for a few seconds, then got an adrenaline rush as a possibility occurred to her. Quickly, she continued down the route until she found the door to the hall, noticing in passing that her paw brushed over several more of the papery objects. In a moment she was in the darkened hall and stepping over to the nearest Retiring Room.

The morning sun shone brightly through the south-facing windows. She blinked against the sudden brilliance a few times, then looked down at the paper.

A study in greens and grays, the ursine countenance of Ulysses S. Grant stared placidly back, flanked on four corners by the number "50".

"_**YES! YES! YES!"**_

Wendy executed a creditable back-flip, not caring a whit that she landed more on her rear than on her feet, and streaked out into the hall, questing for another flashlight.

##

_** 1:10pm **_

". . . . sixteen, seventeen, eighteen. Eighteen stacks. And no leftovers."

Wendy gazed in excessively high satisfaction at the pile of money on the dining table. The interior of the secret passage had been liberally papered with fifty-dollar bills. At first she had simply snatched them off the wood, but soon realized she might be damaging them. After that she levered out the staples first with a table knife. It took a good, long while to get all of bank notes, but she was sure after counting them that she hadn't missed any. She'd sorted them into neat piles of forty bills each, two thousand dollars to a stack. And she had eighteen stacks. Thirty-six thousand dollars.

"Thank you, Uncle!"

And she began racking her brain over the locations of the remaining secret passages.

##

_** 5:16pm **_

Having combed all the hidden corridors she could find (read: remember) on the first two floors, Wendy had made her way up to the third. She didn't recall there being any up here, but since it was basically one big magazine of storerooms, it couldn't be ignored. Now, standing at the entrance to the first such room on the hall, Wendy examined the door before her with puzzlement. Why would it be nailed shut? She thought she recalled that it had been used to store a few random large items, nothing special, just spare armoires and chests and that sort of thing. But it was nailed up tight. Big nails, and lots of them. Given her uncle's state of mind at the time, that could mean anything. But he might have stashed more cash in there, too. She pulled her Leatherman tool out of a back pocket, opened it to the small pry-bar, looked back and forth from it to the nails a couple of times, and replaced it with a shrug.

_Ah, well. I need to bring a toolbox up here anyway._

Several minutes later she returned lugging a five-gallon pail outfitted with a canvas toolholder. Setting it down in front of the door, she selected a twenty-two-ounce claw hammer and got to work. Most of the nails were not driven in all the way, having bent at some point, so they weren't hard to remove, and she had the door freed up in short order. It swung inward easily, revealing the large room she remembered. More than half-expecting it not to work, she pressed the switch beside the door. Wonder of wonders, the overhead light came on; she walked in. Scurrying sounds overhead alerted her to the presence of non-paying guests: squirrels in the attic. _I'll have to see about getting it sealed off. They probably have a nest up there._

She looked around. Four items stood along one wall: two tall chests of drawers, an antique wardrobe, and a steamer trunk, its lid propped open with a block of wood. She peeked inside the trunk first, but it was empty. Ditto the highboys. The wardrobe, though, was half-full of what appeared to be very, _very_ old winter coats.

It had been designed for storage, best she could tell, and was deep enough so that she couldn't see the back wall. She pulled out a small flashlight and shone it around the interior: solid wood, stained dark by time. No shelves along the sides, just racks for hangers. She noticed a bit of carving near the door and bent to look. She could make out four names: Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy. _Wonder who they were? I don't remember any of the servants' kids having those names._ She'd wanted to poke around behind the coats, examine the rear of the wardrobe, but for some reason she got a very uneasy feeling about it just then. _Maybe later._ She closed the wardrobe, flicked off the light, and moved on to the next room.

##

_** 8:55pm **_

_I suppose it was necessary for me to go through that little exercise._

Wendy was filthy, bruised, sore, totally wiped, and starving. And not a penny richer than she had been when she started her treasure hunt. Her right thumb throbbed where she had banged it opening a stuck door, as did the cut on her snout she'd received from a ricocheting hammer. She had a generous clump of ancient spiderweb embedded in her headfur. Too late she had thought of putting on a bandanna.

She made her way slowly back to the kitchen, but realized when she got there that she'd brought nothing to eat. The plan had been to pop over to Bristol for supper, but having put so much manic effort into finding the secret passages, she just plain didn't have the energy to go anywhere right now.

_Bath. That's what I really need right now. A bath._

She groaned, remembering that all the bathrooms were one floor up. Usually she didn't feel her age, but tonight was an exception. She ached all the way to the marrow.

_One of the first things I'm gonna do with this place is get a couple of bathrooms installed on the ground floor. Uncle Julian must've had his brain turned off. _ She rested for a few more minutes, then decided the evening wasn't getting any younger.

_Oh, well._ Heaving upright, she trudged off in the direction of the stairs.

##

_** 9:50pm **_

Though it hadn't managed to fill her stomach, the bath had made a big difference in her attitude. Her tail stuck out the door of the van, twitching and flipping about as she scrounged around the rear seat, seeking sustenance.

"I know there must be a couple of protein bars left if I can just find the damn . . . HAH!" The wayward box came to light. She'd stopped at a health-food store on the way and picked up the package of multi-grain-fruit-and-yogurt things to munch on the road. To her delight, it contained three of them. She stuck two in the pocket of her robe and opened the other. It was gone before she made it back to the door, and another followed in quick succession.

_Better. Much better._ She chased the bars with the last of her V-8 drinks. Yes, the flavors clashed horribly, but as hungry as she was, it didn't much matter.

On her way back up to her room she picked up the case in which she'd secured the money. Not that she expected visitors by any stretch, but it went against her nature to leave that much cash in easy reach.

She'd set up her inflatable mattress just by the short hall, and moved the floor lamp over next to it in case she had any late-night reading. This night, though, she was just plain too tired to do anything. Her eyelids refused to stay up. Wobbling into the bathroom, she picked up her toothbrush and gave her teeth a lick and a promise. Fifteen seconds later she was horizontal.

She stretched her various appendages, consciously relaxing the muscles before snuggling down under the light polartec blanket. "This is nice," she thought, "Just like the summerhouse on the lake."

_. . . . . . . That spring she turned ten they celebrated out at the lake house. She'd brought several of her friends along for a sleep-over. They huddled together in a giggling mass under the corrugated tin roof, talking and playing silly games into the early hours of morning, settling down only when a light rain started. The comfortable, steadily-ringing patter lulled her into a contented, dreamless sleep. . . . . . . _

She would not recall, the next morning, exactly why she made the decision to replace the slate roof with copper. But she was sure it was the _right_ decision.

##

_** Wednesday 29 June 2016, 7:30am **_

Thirty-six thousand dollars in fifties weighed in at somewhat less than two kilograms by her estimate. It was with undisguised delight that Wendy placed the case holding it on the passenger seat. She wanted to get it into the bank this morning, and although Bristol was not far from Ash Creek, she craved a large celebratory breakfast first. So she determined that an early start would be best.

She leaned up against the side of the van and pored over her PA. Three of the contractors Harper had mentioned had offices in Bristol. She called up a map of the town and highlighted the addresses on it, then climbed into the car and downloaded the info into the vehicle's GPS. It gave her an estimated time of arrival for each entry as the recommended route appeared in glowing outline.

Nodding in approval, she started the engine and headed down the long driveway, noting as she passed that the new sod seemed to be 'taking' well. The fact of its even being there at all still puzzled her. Harper was supposed to be working on the mystery.

The drive up to Bristol afforded her ample opportunity to check out the scenery. It begged her to stop and look closer, but she resisted the urge. This time.

She gained a bit of elevation on the trip. Following the van's directions, she pulled up in front of a Denny's and parked. However, before she got out of the car, she noticed another restaurant down the block. The sign proclaimed it to be _The American Café_. It looked like a locally-owned-and-operated type of place, and since Wendy prided herself on her willingness to try new things (where food was concerned anyway) she opted to toodle on over and see how the land lay.

Her first impression was that someone had renovated an old saloon, right down to the appropriately 'weathered' look of the swinging doors. But when she had pushed through them, she found the standard airlock arrangement. The large glass door whooshed softly as she pulled it open. Then she stopped, her muzzle dropping in amazement.

She stood facing the bar, or what had been the bar. Ornate and dark, at least five meters long, it still sported the foot-rail of old along the bottom, and several dozen cigarette burns along the front edge. But what had riveted her attention was the bewildering array of hot sauce bottles that stretched its entire length. She walked slowly forward, her arms spreading in concert with her smile.

The feline receptionist saw her and a corner of her mouth quirked up. "May I help you, Miss?"

Wendy avidly surveyed the selection. "I – Am – In – Love!"

The cat chuckled. "I take it, then, that you are a chili-head?"

"Yes! This is marvelous!" She picked up a few of the bottles and examined them more closely. "Looks like you have them arranged by heat."

"Hey, that's pretty good. You know your sauces, then?"

"Oh, you bet." She moved down to the right end of the bar. "Hmmmm. _Endorphin Rush_, heard of that one, never tried it. _Dave's Insanity_, that's good stuff. Heh-heh: _Pain Is Good_." She chuckled over the label art. "Let's see, _Spontaneous Combustion, Iguana Radioactive_, both good. Woops, what's this?" She picked up a very small bottle with a Death's-Head cap from the very end of the row. "_Sudden Death: 3AM Reserve_. Geez, that's not a sauce, that's an ingredient. One drop per gallon. Ah, here we go: _You Can't Handle This_. Marvelous flavor, sweet, dark and smoky."

"Hey, that's one of my favorites, too!"

"Oooookay." Wendy rubbed her palms together. "How does this work?"

"Well, you just pick your poison and take it to your table. The waiter will be along to get your order."

"Can you do a poached egg on toast?"

"You know it!"

"Then don't bother the waiter, because that's what I want. And a couple of bagels, and a large coffee, and keep the orange juice coming." She scooped up the bottle of legal lip remover and headed over to a table.

##

_** 9:22am **_

Her mouth still had a pleasantly-tingling afterglow by the time she finished her business at the bank. _Nothing like a few rounds with a stiff chili to get the day started right._

She visited all three of the contractors on her list, asking them knowledgeable questions about rates, procedures, and timetables.

The first one gave all the right answers, but had so much work he wouldn't be able to start on the house until August.

The second one talked down to her. He obviously would have preferred discussing business with another male, and she left quickly.

The last one volunteered the information that she could probably make a reasonable amount of money by selling the slates, assuming they could be removed without damaging them. That had not occurred to her, and she was so encouraged by this that she hired the raccoon on the spot. They struck a deal by which he would remove the slates himself, and reduce her charge for the corrugated copper accordingly. Work would begin on the twelfth of July, a week from the following Tuesday.

That gave her spirits a real lift.

She headed to the grocery store next. No way was she going to be without food again; last night's scrounging experience had decided that. WalMart hadn't gotten around to planting a Super-Center in the area yet, but there was a very adequate little IGA on the way back home. She stopped in and stocked up.

Feeling very pleased with herself, she drove back to Ash Creek with the windows down and the CD player wide open.

##

_** 9:45am **_

As Wendy pulled past the edge of the woods and nosed into the huge glade surrounding the house, she spotted two large crew-cab trucks parked in the drive-around, and braked hard.

One fur, atop a large mowing machine, was already making his circular way around half of the sprawling lawn, and two more furs were busy getting a second machine ready. A fourth fur had tackled the raggedy bushes fronting the house.

Wendy slowly moved on up the drive, staring intently at the yard crew. Shortly she was able to make out the logo of Emerald Lawn Care on the truck doors. Then she spotted the same brindle cat who had been foreman over the sod emplacement, and relaxed visibly. She parked next to the trucks and got out.

The cat tipped his stetson as she approached. "Mornin' Ma'am." At that point the second mower fired up and got to work.

"Good morning." She waited until the mower moved away far enough to allow conversation and asked, "Let me guess. This is more of that same anonymous service that was responsible for getting the sod down in the first place, right?"

"Ayah."

"No name or anything? No phone number? No address?"

"No Ma'am."

She contemplated the furs cutting her grass while mulling over this information, and nodded to herself. "Ooookay. So, how often will I be seeing you guys?"

"Every other Wednesday, Ma'am."

"Uh-_huh_." She stuck her paw out. "Wendy Wylde."

He shook her paw. "Oscar Meyer."

Wendy blinked and with an effort forced her muzzle to remain in a neutral position. "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Meyer."

"Likewise."

"Umm . . . what's included in the yard service?"

"We mow the lawn and spray it with weed-n-feed, trim the bushes, trim up around the house and all the trees close to it, and cart off the limbs and clippings."

"And this isn't costing me anything?"

"If you don't know about it, it must not be. Got cash wired in advance. One year contract, fourteen hundred a month."

"_Fourteen_ . . . . . That's almost seventeen thousand dollars!"

"Ayah. Reckon it is. Nice change, too, not to have to pester a customer for payment."

She thought that over a few seconds, and asked, "When did the money come in?"

"End of last week sometime."

_**Oh-HO!**_

Wendy's curiosity took a pronounced leap skyward. This was _not_ Uncle Julian's doing! So, then . . . who?

She pumped the cat for as much information as she could get, and resolved to find out who was behind this. _Not that I'm complaining. I would have had to hire someone to do it anyway. But seventeen thousand a year! Geez!_

##


	7. Chapter 4 Lost and Found Part B

**Author's Notes:**

**What does one do with uninvited guests? Let's find out ...**

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** Wednesday 29 June 2016, 1:40pm **_

Wendy dipped her sponge into the bucket for the nth time and scrubbed the window vigorously. She had worked her way around the kitchen and had edged into the Rear Hall when she ceased her attack for a moment and squatted back on her heels, rubbing her forearm with the opposite paw. She glanced down at the water she was using, and looked back at the window. _No wonder it isn't getting clean. I'm just moving the grime around._ She stood, stretched the kinks out of her back and picked up the bucket, then headed over to the sink for a fresh batch of wash-water.

She sent the old, dirty stuff on its way to the septic system and was about to fill the bucket again when the front doorbell rang. She startled severely, her ears standing straight up.

_Who could that be?_ The furs from Emerald had left close to an hour ago.

She took off the rubber gloves, placing them on the edge of the sink, and walked hesitantly up the Rear Hall toward her unknown visitor, accelerating to a slow jog upon reaching the Main Hall. When she got to the front door, she peeked through the small portal beside it.

Jerry Strick stood on her front porch.

_Why is __**he**__ here?_

Uncertain what to do, she thought it over for several seconds. She had explained to him, carefully, and more than once, that their little twist of the sheets had been the result of combining too much alcohol with her unsettled emotional state that evening. At the time he seemed to accept her reasoning.

So, again, what's he doing here?

_You might try asking him. _

_Okay, I will. _

She opened the door. "Hello, Jerry." She didn't invite him in.

He leaned one paw up against the doorframe, grinning broadly. "Hey, Wendy. Surprise!"

"You could say that." She thought she could smell liquor on his breath, and crossed her arms. "How did you find me?"

"I called your office and asked for you. They put me on to your old secretary, and she told me where you'd went to."

She winced. "Gone."

"Huh?"

"It's 'where you'd gone' not 'where you'd went to'.

He shrugged. "You got the message."

"Hmh." His highly colloquial use of the language had seemed cute at first. Now it just irritated her. "So, what, you were in the neighborhood and thought you'd drop by?"

"Hey, Vermont sounded good to me."

"I thought you understood . . ."

"What I understand is that I'm not lettin' you get away."

"But why?"

"You woke me up last weekend. Ever since Cheryl ran off, I been real slow to get back in the groove. But you were dynamite! _We_ were dynamite." He pushed past her into the entrance hall. "We've got some real chemistry, darlin'."

"When is it going to sink in that I'm too old for you?" _Or you're too young for me. They really aren't the same, are they?_

"I wish you'd stop with the put-on. You look like twenty-five, you smell like twenty-five . . ." He showed his teeth again and ran a finger down her left arm. "You love like twenty-five. We both know you ain't no forty-two."

She frowned at him, said, "Wait here," then trotted up to her room.

He waited.

She came back down.

She passed him a plastic card. "Here. Here's my driver's license. Look. What does that say right there? Date of birth: April 2, 1974. I'm forty-two!"

He looked at it for a bit, frowning, flipped it over to look at the back, then flexed it a few times between thumb and forefinger. "You sure are goin' to an awful lot o' trouble to fool me about your age."

She sighed in frustration and stamped her foot. "What possible reason could I have for wanting to?"

"I dunno. That's what has me curious." He looked around the Main Hall. "This is some place you got here. Plenty of room." He leered at her. "For long-term visitors."

"Look, Jerry, it was fun, okay? You're good in bed, okay? Studly Macho. But what I don't have time for right now is a relationship, especially one that would take so much work. So if you don't mind, I have a lot of _other_ work to do." She looked him in the eye. "You want to wash some windows, stick around. Otherwise, adios." And she indicated the open door.

He held out the license to her. "Nope."

She reached to take it, a puzzled frown crossing her face. "'Nope'? What 'Nope'?"

He dropped the license and grabbed her extended arm above the elbow, pulling her roughly to him, gripping hard enough to bruise. "You can't just give me a quick tumble and expect . . ."

She kicked him on the side of his head.

He let go and stumbled back, dazed.

"_Nobody_ touches me," she hissed, "without my say so." She could not _believe_ what he'd done!

He shook his head a few times and growled deep in his chest. As his fists clenched and he took a step toward her, he said, "That was a mistake. And it'll cost you."

Wendy assumed the fourth kata position.

"Oh, little miss karate, huh? This oughta be fun. I've handled lots bigger than you." He gave an evil chuckle and lunged for her. She ducked, pivoted, and planted another kick on his right quadriceps, just above the knee. He howled and went down on that leg. Wendy backed away from him, panting hard, angrier than she'd been in a very long time.

"**Get out of my house! **_**Out!**_**"**

Massaging his aching leg, murder plain in his eyes, he reached over to the small table against the wall and picked up one of the heavy, brass candlesticks sitting there. And the careening bus of a memory slammed into her. . . . . .

. . . . . . . _In the small hours of the morning Arthur had returned from one of his meetings. Wendy hadn't had any idea of his whereabouts. Pregnancy made her emotionally fragile anyway, and it hurt to realize that he would treat her like that. He hadn't called, and she had worried herself sick, imagining him lying dead in a ditch on some deserted road. Why he had again gotten involved with 'that cult', as she thought of it, she didn't know, but he seemed more passionate about it this time than he had in the first go-round. Obsessive, lately, always ranting about how much it was going to improve their lives. But now he seemed distant, morose. She tried to talk to him, but he remained unresponsive. When she finally got frustrated enough to raise her voice, he snapped. He hit her, hard, in the middle of the chest, and she crumpled gasping to the floor. He pulled her up and punched her twice more, then threw her bodily across the room, screaming obscenities and accusations at her. She could only lie there, bruised and breathless in a heap against the wall, as Arthur stalked toward her, grabbing a small lamp off the side table in passing. Strength gone, she stared into his wild eyes as he came up beside her and raised his makeshift club. His eyes . . . . . _

. . . . . . . The big badger's eyes looked at her just that same way. As he started for her, Wendy bolted down the Hall in a panic.

Jerry limped after her, a red haze clouding his vision, his lips pulled back in a menacing grimace. He got to the rear hall and turned right, following her trail to the kitchen. She was nowhere to be seen. He spied a rack of cutlery and grinned. Tossing aside the candlestick, he selected a large carving knife instead. He'd show _her_. More than she wanted to see.

He trotted up the South Hall, pausing to look in each door, skirting the spiral staircase at the mid-point. Its thick layer of dust showed no sign of anyone's passing. But when he got to the Folly, there she was.

Her intense anger had overridden her fear by the time she'd reached the kitchen, and she resolved to make a stand rather than let this bully run her out of her own home. She stood in the center of the large, round room, feet slightly apart, arms by her sides, obviously waiting for him. She was holding a kitchen towel in her left paw.

Pointing the knife at her, he said, "You shoulda kept on runnin', bitch." He walked toward her.

When he was about four meters away, she said, "You're holding it all wrong, you know."

He stopped. "What?"

"Your knife. You're holding it wrong."

His expression screwed into a gargoyle mask. "Won't make no difference how it cuts. Nobody treats me like that for free." He took another step.

She angled her right arm outward just a fraction. That allowed him to see, past the brownish-black fur of her forearm, the glint on the edge of the large knife she held, twin to his own. His eyes narrowed. His voice shaky with rage, he demanded, "You drop that thing and I might think about going easy on you."

She wound the towel around her left arm in a few deft motions. "You get your drunken carcass out of my house, now, or you'll have to be dragged out."

He bellowed and jumped at her.

She hopped to her right, whirled around and brought her knife up in a short, swift arc across his left elbow. He screamed in pain and dropped to a crouch, blood flinging from the cut.

Jerry's handling of his blade clued her in that he really didn't know anything useful about knife fighting. That, and his slightly inebriated state, constituted her only real advantages; he had her cold on strength and mass. She was breathing hard, her heart fluttering like a hummingbird's from the flood of adrenaline in her system, but she tried like heck to maintain an outwardly calm appearance.

Tomas had always insisted on using real (and very sharp) blades in practice bouts. He claimed that baffled or wooden blades defeated the purpose of learning to fight with a knife, that getting used to dealing with the real thing was the only way to enter an actual, live scrap with confidence. She was about to put his theory to the test.

The sinewy weasel's voice echoed in her head. _Blink but seldom, try to keep your eyes from squinting, keep your mouth closed, and pretend it is a dance. Hold the blade so. These are the pressure points, the maiming points, the killing points. Unless your attacker is expert, you won't have to kill him._

He came at her again, more cautiously this time, making shorter, jabbing motions and growling. She knew he would quickly overwhelm her if the battle came down to paw-to-paw. Trying not to think about what would happen in that case, she fought a controlled retreat around the room, staying well out of his reach, watching for an opening. He gave it to her before long, making another jump to try to grapple her.

She darted forward, under his attack, and nailed him in the side, just below the ribs. He crumpled to a heap on the floor, wearing the most surprised look she'd ever seen on any fur's face. Blood began collecting in a small puddle underneath him.

Wendy realized she was hyperventilating, and had to hold her breath for a minute. She watched him closely as she leaned against the wall, but all he did was lie there, and pant, and bleed.

"Don't go away. I'll be right back." She ran down to the kitchen for her PA and dialed 911.

##

Sergeant Roy DuPuis of the State Patrol had been tooling around in the area, so he got there first, some five minutes ahead of the EMT's, and twenty ahead of the moving van. The van driver had to wait until a couple of the emergency vehicles moved out of the way.

Although Wendy's knife had tickled Jerry's spleen more than a little, the paramedic got the bleeding under control quickly. But then they had to wait for a release from the law officer. The sergeant had quite an interesting story for our heroine. It seemed that friend Jerry had been a bad boy. His ex-wife had slapped a restraining order on him for his history of abuse, plus he had an outstanding warrant in Alabama for assault.

"We appreciate you locating him for us, miss." He was more-or-less obliged to say something along those lines, regardless of the fact that he wasn't looking forward to all the paperwork involved in the extradition.

This whole scene was way too eerily familiar to Wendy. Except that last time, _she_ had occupied the gurney in the ambulance.

##

_** 3:22pm **_

". . . . . So anyway, Harper, I thought I ought to get your take on this fiasco."

"Hmmmm." The lean skunk lay back in his recliner next to the omni-phone on the desk, mulling over Wendy's situation. "I'm very glad you called. Not that I think you will necessarily need legal representation, but it's always good to get knowledgeable input if you aren't sure." He steepled his fingers and thought through the various ramifications. "To start with, he showed up uninvited, and you asked him to leave. He didn't, which constitutes trespassing. He grabbed you first, which is simple battery. He threatened your life. No, Wendy, you were never the aggressor. I doubt any lawyer, no matter how unscrupulous, would take his case. Even then, any judge who was at least conscious would throw it out of court as frivolous. So, no, in my opinion you have little to concern you in that regard."

"Good. I didn't really think so, but it _is_ nice to be sure."

"On a tangential note, how is everything else going?" She had mentioned the moving van in passing.

"Hectic. About like you'd expect. Excuse me, about _as_ you'd expect. I'm afraid my grammar is slipping lately."

He chuckled. "I have similar problems, especially if I've been working with one of my more rustic clients."

"They've got my kitchen and dining room unloaded. Now they're around at the front of the house starting on the bedroom." She giggled. "You never heard such complaining. They wanted to know why I didn't have some way for them to drive into the Main Hall."

Mr. Fenton snorted. "I suppose they feel that what they're doing is too much like work." He paused, then asked, "Have you met any of the locals yet? As something besides a customer, I mean."

"Well, kinda. I met Quinn Coonworth in New Haven Junction. He runs the general store." She thought about that for a couple of seconds, and said, "Okay, okay. I was a customer. So, no, I guess not. I don't have any neighbors in the usual sense of the word. It's almost a kilometer to the next nearest house."

"So you don't have any plans for the weekend?"

_The weekend?_ "What do you mean?"

"Well, any plans to get together with friends and celebrate. That kind of thing."

"Celebrate what?"

He hesitated for a moment, and Wendy was sure he was stifling a laugh. "For the Fourth of July weekend. That date make you think of anything?"

_Duuhhhhhhh!_

"Oh, good grief. I can't believe I got so caught up in my own doings I forgot the Fourth! Geez! . . . . . . . No, I guess I don't have any plans, since I didn't realize I'd need to plan anything. Dammit all anyway!" She was massively chagrined.

The lawyer was practically guffawing. "Hey, no problem. That makes it easy on me. Julie wanted to know if you'd be available to go with us to a fireworks show Sunday night, but I told her I was sure you would have something else to do. She was that downhearted."

"Uh-_**huh**_! You just tell her to perk back up. I'll be there with bells on. What's your address?" He recited it for her and she logged the information into her PA. "Thanks for the invitation. I get the feeling that by the time the weekend rolls around, I'm going to _need_ some R&R."

"Which we will gladly provide."

"Thanks, Harper."

"You can make that 'Harry' and I won't mind."

She smiled at the phone. "Okay, Harry. Look I gotta go see to the movers and . . ."

"Then please don't let me keep you. And good luck getting unpacked."

"Thanks. Take care."

"You, too. Goodbye."

"Bye."


	8. Interlude 1

**Interlude #1**

. . .

. . .

. . .

All right, Mac, we've gotta talk.

_**Oh, Wendy, hi! Sure. Whatcha want to talk about?**_

Where is this plotline going, Mac? Just what the hell was that all about?

_**What was what all about? And please, I've asked you not to call me Mac. Clint will do.**_

Okay, fine, _Clint_, what does all this crap with Jerry have to do with the rest of the story?

_**It's character development.**_

_Character _dev . . . that moron _had_ no character!

_**No, Babe, **__**your**__** character. Though unlikely, it is conceivable that someone may have begun to read this story without having read Chris' stories first, in which case he or she will not be familiar with your backstory.**_

Well, hey, since you brought up the backstories, my business with Arthur was finished years ago. Why is that monumental jerk even _mentioned_ in this story?

_**He has a pivotal role in the second major plot shift in Chapter 34.**_

Say what?

_**Is this a problem?**_

Damn straight!

_**Wendy, you got the same plot synopsis that every other fur got. You told me you liked it. You were remarkably gushy about the ending. Does this mean you were just humoring me?**_

Don't pull that with me! Let me just quote you this so-called synopsis: "[Chapter 2] Aufweidersehen: Wendy says goodbye to her friends, and has Chris & Sabrina over for dinner a few nights before she leaves." It doesn't mention a thing about me coming on to them!

_**But it was very easy to extrapolate, given what I know of your personality.**_

That's beside the point. You blindsided me.

_**Did you enjoy doing the chapter?**_

. . . . . . . Don't change the subject.

_**If you want me to re-write it . . . **_

No! That's okay. It was really kinda fun. I just wasn't expecting it.

_**Isn't that part of the reason you do what you do?**_

. . . I . . . I guess. Yeah. Kinda.

_**This isn't what you'd call a straightforward love story. When I told you there would be a few twists and surprises, I wasn't joking.**_

Well, then, let me just say this about that. From your synopsis on Chapter Three: "Wendy turns in her notice at work and throws a farewell party for herself and several friends and acquaintances." Again, no mention of that little parting gift to Rodin . . .

_**I thought that was a nice touch.**_

It was! I just wasn't looking for it. It was a real hoot, though, 'specially since Perry wasn't expecting it either. Eee-_gad_! You shoulda seen his face!

_**See? **_

I'm not finished! About that breakdown scene at the end. Why is it anybody else's business that I lost my daughter to SIDS?

_**It's part of a pattern of misfortune in your past that is necessary for the readers to know. It gets fleshed out more in Chapters 19 and 28.**_

There you go again! I don't see anything in the synopsis that relates! What are you up to?

_**I'm trying to tell a story here. Your story, complete with happy ending, if you'll recall. Assuming I can get some cooperation.**_

Why do I not trust you?

_**A better question would be: Why would you trust anyone? Given the way you've been treated.**_

Chris _never_ did me this way!

_**True. Instead, he gave a **__**really**__** great guy, that you **__**really**__** liked a lot, to someone else.**_

Screw you! He only did that because of Eric.

_**I suppose you could look at it that way. . . . Does this mean you want out?**_

What if it does?

_**Well . . . I'd have to start over. Probably scrap Chapter 2. See if I could find a replacement for you, although frankly a true replacement doesn't exist. I came up with this exclusively for you. I'm not sure I'd have the motivation to keep it going if you leave. There wouldn't be much point.**_

. . . . . Why not?

_**I told you. It's **__**your**__** story. It's a happy ending for **__**you**__**. I thought you deserved one.**_

. . . . . ? . . . . . . . . . . ? . . . . . .

_**You're awfully quiet over there.**_

I didn't know you'd done it for me.

_**Why else would I be doing it?**_

I dunno. Why does anyone write?

_**There are as many different motivations as there are people. You were mine.**_

That's . . . that's rather flattering.

_**I'm pleased you think so. Still want to stick with the project?**_

Yeah. Yes, I do. You've got my curiosity going now, so I guess I'll have to. It's something of a curse. People have told me before that I must be part cat.

_**Heh. See, now that's another thing. I'd really miss talking with you if you were to leave.**_

. . . Thanks.

_**I'd miss that blush, too.**_

Now stop that!

_**. . . . . So, is there anything else I can help you with?**_

Umm, yeah. When am I supposed to meet these guys? Karl and Chase?

_**Very soon.**_

Okay. Tell you what, though, Karl sounds like a _major_ prude.

I'll let you be the judge of that.

Hmm. We'll see. Hey, you free for lunch?

_**Not really. I have to pick up my oldest daughter from youth group in a half-hour.**_

Bummer. All right, then, see you tomorrow.

_**Later.**_


	9. Chapter 5 Introductions Part A

Chapter Five - Introductions

**The secret to success in life is honesty and fair dealing.  
****If you can fake that, you've got it made.  
**** - **_**Groucho Marx**_

##

_** Tuesday 05 July 2016 – 10:05am **_

Wendy stopped just inside the door to the large music parlor, crossed her arms, leaned back against the jamb and contemplated the . . . _item_ decorating the piano.

It had been one of Uncle Julian's quirks to collect weird objects: not precisely art, but not particularly practical either.

Take the hammered bronze shiffarobe in one of the Retiring Rooms. It had come from India, originally, a work specially commissioned by an old friend of his in England. Supposedly designed to hold hanging garments, it was far too short for most of the clothes Wendy had. It rocked crazily when touched, due to its missing a foot.

Then there was the hand-carved piece of banister that ran along the upper landing at the rear of the house. A single piece of crotch mahogany, very valuable, it depicted a battle between some great snakes and a trio of creatures with flat, squinched-up faces, who were completely furless except for the long hair on their muzzles and the tops of their heads. Though ugly as homemade sin, it did manage to fit in with the theme of the rear gathering area there on the second floor. More or less. But it had come loose from its moorings and would give anyone leaning on it a nasty surprise.

And this thing. Who could forget the fish-light? Mounted on the baby grand, an anodized-aluminum monstrosity of twisted ribbons of sheet metal, each of the eight strips tapering down to a thin wire from which dangled a life-sized replica of a tropical fish. Small but powerful batteries in each fish gave life to the focused-LED array in its mouth. The thing all but defined the term 'tacky'. And now it didn't work. Probably just needed new batteries, but Wendy couldn't figure out how to access them. This piece, at least, she could transport in her van. She unscrewed it from its base, and carried it out to the porte-cochère. Laying it carefully in the back of her vehicle, she secured it with three lengths of high-strength nylon twine.

Back inside, she tripped over to the ex-storeroom she had appropriated for her office, and scooped up the motherboard from her computer.

"All right, you mother of a motherboard. Time for new points and plugs." She went back down to the car, buckled the board into the seat behind hers, and took off for town.

##

_** 11:15am **_

Pulling up in front of the Fixit Shop, she parked in one of the three spaces. She turned off the engine and sat for a moment, examining the building. _Unprepossessing place. I hope Quinn didn't steer me wrong. _ She got out of the minivan and opened the driver's-side sliding door to retrieve the motherboard. Her stride as she walked toward the Shop's entrance was almost hesitant, a result of the building's appearance. Clapboard made up the exterior, nothing unusual for the area, but it had weathered severely, never having been painted. The small sign hanging above the entrance had received the same level of neglect. Peeling black paint roughly half-covered the front door itself. That door had originally sported a large pane of glass in its upper half, but it had been replaced with plywood many years before. The windows flanking the door were dingy to the point of being opaque, and the mat squatting on the stoop showed the brick underneath in several places. The screen door lacked a spring, leaving it canted open some thirty-odd degrees.

She levered the screen door out of the way with her knee and pushed on the front door. It had no knob, only a push-plate where the knob should have been, and offered little resistance to her elbow. _Geez, are there two Fixit Shops? Quinn said this Mr. Luscus could fix anything, but this place doesn't look like it fits the bill._ However, her hopes rose somewhat when she got inside.

It was well-lit, for one thing, and the various pieces of equipment, machinery, and hardware between the door and the counter were lined up in soldierly rows and bore tags describing the problems that had brought them to the shop. An aisle (covered with nearly-new carpet, no less) led straight to that counter, which was an admirable example of order and efficiency. She giggled over the small sign propped up at one end of the counter which read:

Our Check Policy:

To err is furry.  
To forgive is $25.00

Wendy set the motherboard gingerly on the smooth surface and rang the small bell.

A voice floated up from the rear of the shop. "Be right there." It was male, fairly high, and musical, carrying a hint of a brogue. In a few seconds a mouse of medium height poked his head around the corner of one of the many tall shelves behind the counter, spotted Wendy, and came trotting up. "Top o' the mornin' to ye! Got a bad board?" He picked up the motherboard and looked it over. "What's it doing or not doing?"

Wendy was shocked. This young fellow couldn't possibly be out of his teens! "You . . . would be Mr. Luscus?" she asked with some uncertainty.

His surprise was obvious. "Who, me? Mercy, no!" He stuck his paw out. "Me name's Martin. Martin O'Musca. I jist work for Karl . . . I mean, Maister Luscus." His face dimpled as he said that.

Wendy observed, "You have a delightful accent. What part of Vermont are you from?"

He laughed out loud. "That's a good one, Ma'am. We're from Ireland. Moved here seven years ago when I was ten."

Wendy shook his paw. "My name's Wendy Wylde." She tried out one of the localisms she had heard. "Good to know ya."

"Same here. So, what's the deal with the board?"

"About half the time when I turn it on, I get a big, floating message on the screen that says 'Burn In' and nothing else happens. If I turn it off and give it a few minutes, it will usually boot up fine. Not always, though. But I'm also having trouble with my files getting corrupted. It's driving me nuts. Have you heard of this problem before?"

He looked puzzled. "Not me. But then I'm probably not goin' t' be fixin' this board, so it doesn't matter." He set it back on the counter and pulled out a job ticket. "Karl has me on … 'scuse me, I mean Mr. Luscus has me on farm equipment detail this month. I've got an old hay bailer torn apart out back, an' I'll be blamed if I can figure out why it won't feed th' twine." He wrote down the vital statistics off the board, and then Wendy's name, and then asked, "Is there a phone number where ye can be reached?" She gave it to him. "How about an address?" When she told him, he wrote it down, and then looked at it, concentrating. "That the old Vulpin place?"

"Why, yes!" He was the fourth fur she'd met to refer to it in that way. "Are you familiar with Ash Creek Inn?"

"Jist the creek itsilf. I've nivver been t' the mansion. But Ash Creek has some o' th' best fishing spots in th' state. You bet I get out that way, especially since Karl, I mean Mr. Luscus taught me t' fly-fish." He patted his lean tummy while licking his chops. "Helps to supplement the diet." He did a slight frown, looked away briefly, and then back at her. "Did ye say 'Ash Creek _Inn'_? Like a hotel?"

"Uh-huh. That's what I have in mind for the place, as a bed-and-breakfast. But the longer I'm here, and the more work I do out there, the more work seems to pop up. And my uncle left me a paid account here, so I thought that I'd . . . "

"OH!" His eyes got big. "_You're_ the mystery customer!"

That stopped her. "Mystery customer?"

"Faith, Karl is gonna wanna _meet_ you! We've been speculatin' jist who ye might be for weeks and weeks." He was getting quite excited. "Oh, boy, I hope he gets back soon."

"What _are_ you talking about?"

"Old man Vulpin! Him and Karl … 'scuse me, I mean he and Mr. Luscus were buds. The boss helped him with things."

"You mean he knew my uncle _personally_?" Wendy was incredulous.

"Sure, an' he did. He was out there a right smart bit over th' last year or so. Why, jist a little before they took him off …"

Wendy's thoughts immediately jumbled.

_Why didn't Harper know? _

_What kind of "help" did he give Uncle Julian?_

_Why was the place still a wreck, if he was such a good friend?_

_What else do I not know about my uncle's acquaintances?_

_What does this Karl Luscus know about him that I don't?_

_Did he take anything?_

_._

_._

_._

_Does he know what happened to the rest of the money?_

Wendy realized that Martin had stopped speaking. She looked up at him. He seemed to expect some kind of answer.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you. It's just that your … your news is … surprising. That's all. What did you say?"

"That I remembered where Karl got off to. He's over Bristol way to see about some wrought iron. I don't believe he'll be back afore dark. Would ye be stayin' in town for th' day, then?"

She thought about it briefly. "No. I think not. I really have too much to do at Ash Creek, and no other reasons to be here. I guess I'll have to meet him some other time."

"Tis sad is what it is. I _will_ tell him ye dropped by. He'll be wantin' to talk to ye about your uncle."

_And I'll be wanting to talk to __**him**__!_

"Thank you, Martin. Have him call me if he has any questions about the board. I'm usually home." That last sentence sounded a bit heavier in her ears than she had intended.

She took her claim ticket and left. It was only after she'd gotten back to the Inn that she realized she still had the fish light in the van.

##

_** Thursday 07 July 2016 – 11:10am **_

Wendy stepped back from the big utility table in the kitchen and surveyed her work, pulling off the heavy rubber gloves. Amazing. That so much junk could be squirreled away in one room. The huge old kitchen was rife with cabinets and cubbies, drawers and cupboards, shelves and pie-safes, and each one had been crammed full. Mounds of crockery, glassware, stoneware, Tupperware, good china, cheap china, forty or fifty place settings of flatware, cleavers, chopping blocks, steak knives, carving knives, butcher knives, paring knives, and a double-dozen desperately tarnished silver items covered every horizontal surface in the room. There was a fine selection of more modern appliances of one type or another, but a lot of them were in poor shape. Take the Cuisinart, for example. Flipping the on/off switch resulted in a grinding noise so severe it raised her hackles. It would have to be repaired. There were no fewer than four paw mixers, none of which worked at all. And a slow-cooker that only heated on "low".

_Ordinarily_, she thought as she carted the stuff out to the car, _ordinarily I would just go buy a new mixer. They only cost twenty or twenty-five dollars. But this is free, and I have to leave my thumbprint in every nickel until this place is self-sustaining._

She placed the broken Cuisinart and an antique radio carefully on the bench seat in her minivan, and used the seat belts to secure them. The mixers and the slow-cooker fit in a box on the floorboard. She had to run by Quinn's to pick up a few items, so it only made sense to drop off these at the Fixit Shop on the same trip. Not that it was terribly far, but with all she had going on she couldn't abide wasted time.

_And this trip I'll remember to unload that dumb fish-light._

##

Quinn was in his spot by the stove when she got to his shop. The day was fine, but that never mattered to him: he had the fire going. For a raccoon, he was awfully cold-natured.

Wendy called cheerily, "Good morning, Quinn! How are you?"

He glanced up from his paper. "Wendy."

She stopped in front of the tall counter and tried to peer over the top. "Did my things come in yet?"

"Ayah." He turned a page and continued reading.

She looked over at the laconic fur and placed one paw on a hip. "Well?"

He sighed, then carefully and methodically folded the paper back to its original configuration and slowly rose from the rocking chair. "Right here." He pulled a paper bag from behind the counter and gave it to her. "Be thirty-six-and-forty."

Wendy passed him two twenties and waited while he counted out her change.

"Thursday. You'll want t'go by th' Shop."

She figured (correctly) that just waiting for him to release any further information on the topic would be time wasted, so she said, "What for? What's special about Thursday?"

"Stereo."

"What stereo?"

He sat back down in his rocker and picked up the paper again. "One in his shop."

Prying a complete story out of Quinn was like panning for gold in a bathtub. Kept one busy but tended to be shy of results. "Is there something I'm supposed to listen to, then?"

"Ayah." He found his place and resumed reading.

She let it drop. "Was going there anyway. Got some kitchen things need fixin'." She rolled her eyes heavenward. _Yeesh! I'm starting to sound like him!_

Wendy had made it almost to the door when Quinn said, "Good day for it."

She looked back at him and grinned. "Ayah."

He peered at her over his paper for a few seconds, then shook his head and went back to reading, muttering something she couldn't quite make out.

She was chuckling quietly as she left.

##

_**Author's Note:**_

_**The soundtrack for this section is**_

_**"Adagio for Strings" by Samuel Barber**_

##

A large, elderly sedan sat parked in front of the Fixit Shop when she pulled up. _Another customer? Cool. Someone I haven't met yet, I hope._ She picked up the box from the floorboard and lugged it over to the building. A flyer proclaiming a bake sale at a local church decorated the front door.

Inside there was no one in evidence. She set the box down on the counter and rang the little bell. Only this time, it didn't ring. It gave forth a muted, electronic pinging that ricocheted around the room for several seconds. She stared at it, puzzled, and was reaching over to tap it again when she heard … no, she _felt_ … music. At the same time, she caught a faint whiff of … perfume? It wasn't floral, exactly, but … no, it was gone.

And her world tilted to the music.

Ohhhhhhhh! The _**MUSIC!**_

It was a low, velvety piece, mainly strings, and it was coming from … everywhere? Bewildered, she turned to look around the shop, but couldn't see any speakers. The sound obligated her attention. It was as if the music were forming in her bones, as if she were hearing it from the inside out. She paused, then held very still, marveling over the resonant tones.

_Wow. Is this what Quinn was talking about?_

The melody slid smoothly along, minor chords predominating, building on a soft, tentative base of gentle violins and cellos. She closed her eyes, listening intently, trying to determine how this was being done. The main theme rounded out, speaking of loss, reminding of might-have-beens. Its mood deepened and became … yes, wistful, that was it.

The sweeping rise and fall of the melody settled softly into her mind. She began to sway very slowly, not aware that she was doing so. The piece swelled in the next minutes as it expanded on the theme, the strings becoming more insistent (the sorrow no longer content to drift in the background) asking the same questions again in another voice.

The effect captivated her utterly.

The harmony's complexity increased, the sadness of the primary motif overlaid with an aching emptiness, and finally weeping, begging her to share their grief, climbing to an excruciating, prolonged peak. Involuntarily, she had raised her arms about halfway, palms up.

Her head tilted back, two tears furrowed quiet trails through the fur of her cheeks. She moved not a muscle. After a short pause, seconds only, the music picked up again, reiterating the initial theme in a more placid manner, to end finally on a note of hopeful longing.

She stood, rapt, saturated in melodic emotion, more affected by it than she could have believed.

"Beautiful piece, isn't it?"

Wendy _yipped_ and nearly jumped out of her pelt. She wheeled around to confront the speaker, and found herself looking into a wall of very long, brownish-black fur. She quickly backpedaled as her gaze traveled upward to a point almost a meter above her eye level.

Her foot whacked into the tire of a tiller parked on the floor, and she would have fallen, painfully, except that a huge paw swiftly engulfed one of her pinwheeling arms and helped to set her back on her feet. He steadied her, and released her arm. She took another couple of steps back to be able to see all of him.

He was a wolverine, and easily the largest fur she had ever encountered. Way over two hundred centimeters, shoot, maybe two-twenty. He was a giant. Besides a dark brown, many-pocketed apron around his waist, it seemed he wore nothing. And apart from two very faint stripes of marginally lighter brown decorating his face, his fur was unrelieved by any markings, and seemed to absorb the light from the overhead fluorescents. His eyes showed none of the whites and were discernable only by reflection. Those eyes widened in surprise for a few seconds. He said something under his breath she didn't quite catch; it sounded like 'feed me'. But then he gathered himself and shook his head. His lips pulled back in a grin.

"You're staring, m'lady."

Wendy blinked and shook her head. "Well, excuse me, but you scared the pants off me, sneaking up on me like that!"

"For which I must apologize. That was not my intention." His voice was not terribly deep, baritone rather than bass, and well-modulated. She couldn't place his accent.

He extended his right paw. "I'm Karl Luscus, the proprietor."

She took his paw in a firm a grip, and was surprised anew by the size of it. _I'll bet he tops out over a hundred-sixty kilos._ She recovered quickly. "Wendy Wylde. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Luscus."

"It's just Karl. Mr. Luscus passed away several years ago." They broke their pawclasp. "So, did you like it?"

"Like what?"

"The music."

"Oh!" She took a deep breath. "Umm, yeah. I guess it was the music that . . . I guess I was kinda . . . caught up in it." She looked around, still trying to find the speakers. "What was it?"

"Samuel Barber. Adagio for Strings. It was written around the time of the Great Depression last century. You're not familiar with Barber, then?"

"Nnnooooo. That surprises me, too. I've got a pretty good collection of classical stuff." She was staring again. "What I meant, though, was: How did you do it? I don't see any speakers. And I've never had music to . . . it just . . . it filled everything." She thought about it, trying to define her reaction. "There was some kind of coalescence going on twixt mind and sound." She rubbed a bit of the moisture off one cheek and looked at her fingers. "This is very unusual, to say the least."

He looked like a kid who had just been handed an all-day sucker. "Yeah! Marvelous effect, isn't it? I installed reverberation grids in the floor and ceiling right there in front of the counter, so the listener's skeletal structure conducts the sound. The sub-woofer is in the counter, and those weed-whackers there and there are actually the tweeters. I was trying for total sonic immersion."

"Hunh. Well you got it. In spades." She shook her head in wonder. "That was the most intense musical experience of my life." She walked over to one of the tweeters and examined it more closely. "Why did you install it here?"

"I had to install it somewhere."

"Do you have one at home, too?"

His grin went sideways. "Not exactly."

"Then why here?"

He quirked an eyebrow. ". . . . . . . Why not?"

"Ummm. Okay." She shrugged. If he was going to be mysterious, hey, not her problem. "Whatever. I did like it, though. Thanks." She had her eyes fixed on his bulk again. _I wonder why he keeps his fur so long?_

"Well! Maybe we can do some swapping." He rubbed his paws together. "I'm a big fan of the classics." He paused. Wendy said nothing, just stared. "So. What may I help you with?"

Wendy just couldn't quite get a grip. _What is __wrong__ with me?_ "I'm sorry. I'm here about the motherboard I dropped off Tuesday, and to give you some more things to fix. Do you have an estimate for when it will be ready?"

"That I do." He grinned again, displaying an impressive amount of ivory. "A very accurate estimate." She noted in passing how unusually sharp his teeth looked, and wondered if he'd had them 'done'. He went around behind the counter and pulled a box off one of the shelves. Placing it in front of her, he said, "Now."

"Oh!" She returned his grin. "Now that's service!"

"Thank you, thank you, glad to do it, customer satisfaction is our meat and drink, et cetera." Extracting the work order ticket, he leaned on the counter, which creaked loudly. He paid it no mind. "You had a bad sound card, of all things. Had a new one in stock, so you were Providentially unhindered."

Wendy picked up the box. "That's terrific." She headed toward the door. "I've got some more things out in the car, so I'll just do a switch. Be right back."

She deposited the box on the passenger seat, retrieved the radio and Cuisinart from the bench seat, and headed back inside. Mr. Luscus hadn't moved.

"Will this be cash, check, or debit card?"

Wendy looked surprised. "What?"

He raised an eyebrow at her tone. "Payment: cash, check, or debit?"

She stared at him, and said, "But . . . but . . ."

He stood up very straight, a daunting sight. "It is generally accepted practice to give pelf for service rendered." His voice had taken on a slight edge.

"But I've got an account! My Uncle Vulpin set it up for me!"

There was an audible snap as the pen Karl was holding broke. He stood very still for a few seconds, then said, "_You're_ Julian's niece?"

_Oh, __Julian__, is it?_ "Yes. Wendy Vixxen Wylde. Julian Vulpin was my uncle. In his will he had set up . . ."

"Right!" He shook his head. He had expected Julian's niece to be someone _much_ older than this pretty vixen. "I am terribly sorry, Miss. There was no notation whatsoever on the work order. I didn't know." He looked at her more closely. "Was he your _great_ uncle?"

"No. He was a lot older than my father, better than twenty years older, and my mother was my father's second wife. I came along kinda late in the picture."

"I see." Now he seemed chagrined. "I fear I must offer my second apology in the space of five minutes." He frowned. "Was my apprentice aware of your special status?"

"Ummmmm. . . . . . Yeah."

"I can see I'll have to have a talk with him."

"Oh, don't be mad at Martin. Mistakes happen, I'm sure he meant no harm. He seemed like a nice kid."

"Uh-huh. He is that. And he really tries hard. But sometimes he can be infuriatingly scatter-brained." He gestured around the shop. "All this order and discipline is in place for that very reason. If he has a strict framework to operate in, usually he can do a good job." He sighed. "I guess it comes with being a teenager. Many of them are that way."

He turned his attention to the items Wendy had brought in. "I know that radio! When did it stop working?"

She eyed him warily. "You know it from where?"

"From the mansion, naturally. Julian used to set it up in the kitchen where he could run a receiver wire to the plumbing." He got more animated as he talked. "He claimed it helped with reception, but I think it was all in his head." He picked it up and turned it so he could access the rear cover, then fished around under the counter for a screwdriver. "It just about takes an act of Congress to get parts for these things anymore. Everyone wants to upgrade the innards to solid-state instead." He quickly removed the back and began pulling out tubes, laying them out on the counter. "Of course, the modern electronic components work ten times better, but if you really want a museum-quality piece . . . . . "

As he chatted, Wendy's eyes wandered back to the big fur's silhouette. _Y'know, come to think about it, he doesn't seem to be all that old, himself. Twenty-five or thirty, maybe. Must be a real go-getter to have his own shop and everything._

He caught her staring again, and decided the blunt approach might be best. Fixing his eyes on hers, he asked, "Does my size bother you?"

"No! Umm, not at all." Wendy looked away in some confusion. She was glad her facial fur was already red, the better to hide the scarlet blush tingeing her cheeks. _Why, __**why**__, __**why**__ am I being such an airhead today?_ Grasping for a plausible explanation, she remembered the questions she wanted to ask him. "I wonder if you would mind clearing up a thing or two for me."

"I'll do my best."

"How long did you know my uncle?"

". . . . . For most of the last two years of his life."

_Whoa._

"I see. Well . . ." She thought of how to phrase it. "Were you aware that he was out of touch with reality?"

"Anyone who spent more than a few minutes with him could hardly be _un_aware of that fact."

"And . . . . . . . that didn't bother you?"

"Not particularly. He was harmless."

She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "Tearing down his horse barn in the middle of the night? Stealing dynamite from somewhere and blowing up a boulder in his front yard? You call that harmless?"

He gave her a steady look for the space of several seconds, then crossed one arm over his vast expanse of chest, rested the other elbow against the back of his paw, and held his jaw between thumb and forefinger as he formulated an answer. "He didn't steal any dynamite," he finally said. "The substance he used on the boulder was a liquid, and he cooked it up himself."

"WHAT?"

"Miss Wylde, Julian Vulpin may have been insane, but he was far, _far_ from stupid. He provided me with some of the most scintillating conversations of my life. He had been everywhere at least once, had read practically everything worth reading, and managed to retain most of it." He smiled a little, to himself, it seemed. "Most furs just coast through life and, when they get to the end, wonder what they did with it. But not him. That old fox had _**lived**_."

"Well, yeah, I guess so, but . . ."

"But, nothing. Julian was personable, witty, imaginative, and clever, and possibly the best story-teller I ever met. In two years, he never displayed any lapse in intellect, which is quite a feat for someone just shy of a century old. Yes, he could be over-the-top. Yes, he occasionally got lost in his own world, and that world would float off to entirely different dimensions. But everything he did, each detail, was executed with taste and panache, as if it were part of some grand performance." He gave her a level stare. "I can safely say that Julian Vulpin was the least cacophrenic – excuse me, the sharpest fur of my acquaintance." His manner stopped just short of belligerent, daring her to disagree.

_Well, gee, mister, why don't you let me know how you __really__ feel? _

"Okay." She paused for a bit, irked at the turn the conversation had taken. "I can accept that. I hadn't seen him or heard from him in twenty years, so I hardly rank as an expert. But, look, if you were such marvelous friends, why didn't you get him some medical help? Or at least tell somebody?"

"He didn't need medical 'help'. He needed a friend."

"That's not what the doctors at the rest home said."

"And what else would you expect _doctors_ to say?"

She lifted one eyebrow. "I take it you don't hold the medical profession in very high regard." He had pronounced the word as if it were a curse.

"Let's just say I have my reasons and leave it at that." And he went back to poking around the interior of the old radio.

"Hmh." _Figures. Uncle Julian sets up this wonderful account, this free service, this marvelous resource; and it turns out to be run by someone just as nutty as he was._

"Fine." She spun abruptly and marched back to her vehicle. Opening the door with somewhat more force than necessary, she collected the other box of busted appliances, slammed that same unoffending door, and made her way back inside.

With a clatter, she dropped the box on the counter next to him. "Here. They're broken." And she turned to go.

"Ms. Wylde?"

She stopped, her back to him, her head erect and very stiff. "What?"

"I'm sorry."

She glanced back over her shoulder. "Oh, really? For what?"

"For upsetting you. I offended you without cause. It was stupid, I have no excuse, and I beg your pardon."

_Maybe he's not a total boor after all._ "Very well. My pardon you have."

"Thank you."

She turned back and looked at him again. He seemed genuinely contrite. "If it's not too personal a question, what did I say that set you off?"

"It isn't what you said." He shook his head slightly. "It's just the baggage I happen to be carrying. Baggage I thought I'd thrown back on the train years ago."

"Bad experience with a physician?"

"Plural, on both counts. I frankly just don't trust most of them. Not that there aren't a lot of good ones, but the old joke about ninety-nine percent of lawyers giving the rest of them a bad name applies equally well to institutional doctors as far as I'm concerned."

'_Institutional' doctors? What does that mean?_ "Well, I'm sorry I gave you the third degree," she admitted. "It's just that I have a number of blank spaces left in my picture of Uncle Julian, and it sometimes makes me uncomfortable."

"Ah." He thought that over for a moment. "Perhaps I can help fill in the blanks to some extent."

She, in turn, paused and considered him more carefully, then smiled a little. "I'd like that."

"I should _not_ have popped off that way, and I _am_ that sorry. Haven't reacted like that in a long time." He had a most repentant expression. "And the really mortifying thing about it is, I recognized the source of the problem beforehand."

"Oh?"

"You . . . well, you remind me strongly of someone I used to know. There are any number of . . . disagreeable memories connected with that period of my life, and I transferred my anger over them to you. That was hardly fair." The last sentence came out softly, apparently directed at himself. "You'd think I'd be over it by now."

"So I look like someone you used to know?"

"Very much. I noticed it when you first turned around. The resemblance is uncanny."

"Really? What's her name?"

He paused a few seconds, then said, "Her name _was_ Phoebe. Phoebe Reynard." This came out quietly, his features held carefully rigid.

". . . . . Oh. I see." Suddenly she felt like an intruder poking around in someone's private things. "I'm sorry." And she truly was.

He shrugged, his expression bleak. "You needn't be. You had nothing to do with it."

"Well, it does go a long way toward making your reaction understandable."

He sighed. "I suppose." Neither of them said anything for a quarter of a minute. She examined his face, and he stared into the past. Then he picked up the thread again. "I don't really blame the rest home medicos for what they did. Not exactly. I know Julian was a little out of kilter, and he probably would never have had the chance to make out his will had he been left un-medicated. But he just wasn't the same sparkling furson I had known before, after they got him doped up." Karl stood there, one paw on the counter, looking off at nothing. "He hardly ever smiled while he stayed at the rest home."

"That's a sad thing to hear."

"Yeah."

"He was a good friend . . . wasn't he?"

"Yes. Yes, he was." He looked straight into her eyes. "I miss him."

"I _am_ glad he made his will, though."

That brought out a hint of a smile. "I guess so. That's quite a place. It could be magnificent with a touch of TLC."

"Oh, I think it'll take more than a touch. More like a roundhouse kick." She took this opening to get the topic back on more comfortable ground. "Speaking of which, do you make house calls?"

He seemed as relieved as she to change the subject. "I do. But I sometimes need a day or two notice, depending on the load here at the shop. The closer it gets to winter, the more free time I have, so if your water heater blows in January, I'm your fur."

"Sounds good. Then I guess I should go ahead and tell you about the second floor banister at the rear of the house."

"That mahogany piece with the weird creatures on it?"

"That's the one. It's really loose."

"I'll pop out tomorrow and give it facelift, then."

"Cool! Maybe you could do something about the big freezer as well."

"Oh, that thing has a mind of its own. It might be working when you get back home."

"Not likely. It isn't plugged in."

He chuckled. "Okay, I'll look at it. What time is good for you?"

"Any time, really. I'm on a cleaning frenzy right now, so I'm there unless I'm here or shopping."

"Ten o'clock do, then?"

"Sounds good." She decided to tweak him a little, to see his reaction. "I knew that word, by the way."

He thought for a second as he stared at her, replaying their conversation. "You mean cacophrenic?"

"Right."

"If you don't mind my asking, where did you pick it up?"

"I collect old and obscure words. It's a some-time hobby. Not quite an avocation." She grinned broadly when she noticed his eyes light up.

"Well! We must get together and do some trading, then."

"Drop by the Café when I get it going, and we'll see."

"I shall make it a point to be . . . Café?"

"Absolutely. Gourmet dining, per request."

"My Lady, you now have my full attention. Eating is one of the great loves of my life."

She looked his frame over appreciatively. "You know, I think I might have guessed that. You don't look like a fur who's missed too many meals."

"Not on purpose, at any rate."

"Okey-doke." She turned back to the door, calling over her shoulder, "Got a million things to clean, and that's no lie, so I gotta go." She paused when she reached the door, noting a twin of the flyer on its other side. She pointed at the paper. "What's the deal with this?"

"It's a bake sale Mercy Chapel's putting on to raise money for a mission trip to the beach later this summer."

_Bake sale, huh?_ "So how's it work?"

"You've never participated in a bake-sale before?"

"Only as a customer. Do they take donations from anyone, or is it church members only?"

"Oh, by all means, if you'd like to bake something for them I'm sure they'd be tickled to get it. The more the merrier."

Wendy had a happy thought. This could be a good opportunity for some cheap advertising. She looked at the paper again. "Starts at noon, a week from Saturday. Okay. Cool. When do they need to get the stuff?"

"I suppose as long as they have it by about eleven o'clock, they'd be happy."

She glanced up at him. "Where _is_ the church?"

"Off Highway 17, about a kilometer and a half west of town. On the right. You can't miss it."

She snorted softly. "How many times have I heard that line?"

"Okay, then, it would be _difficult_ to miss. Even were you trying."

"I'll accept that. Mind if I take the flyer?"

"No, please, go ahead. I have more."

"Oh! . . . . You a member there?"

"Yes, I am."

"Uh-_huh_." She stood in the doorway, considering possible candidates for the sale. "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

She folded the paper and slipped it into a pocket. "It was very . . . _interesting_ meeting you, Mr. Karl Luscus."

"I feel the same. Farewell, m'lady." He watched her exit, then trotted over to the front door and watched some more until her minivan trundled out of sight down the street. But though his gaze lay in her direction, he didn't really see _her_. Old memories kept getting in the way.

After a few minutes he vented a long, ragged sigh, then went back to the counter, where he picked up the service bell and examined it. _She was having too much trouble shaking off the effects of the sensory enhancement, I could tell. I'd better lower the dosage._ And he set to work taking apart the bell and the tiny atomizer it contained.

Wendy never noticed until she was back at Ash Creek that the fish-light still graced her rear seat.

##


	10. Chapter 5 Introductions Part B

Chapter Five - Introductions

##

_** Thursday 07 July 2016, 5:12pm **_

The late afternoon sun shone full on the face of the mansion, casting the back of the place into shadow. But the slanting light playing tag among the leaves of the tall trees behind the house drew Wendy onto the rear porch for her evening meal. She loved to take her breaks here, where the freshening breeze from the forest could caress her fur, and she could watch and listen to the multitude of birds that made their homes there.

The estate's unknown designer had planned well. The huge, open meadow in front would heat up during the course of a day, and the buoyant air above it would rise, creating a natural draft across the house and pulling the cooler air from the woods through it.

Wendy set her tray on a small table just outside the kitchen, pulled up one of the wicker chairs, and, taking a bite of her sandwich, admired the view. She tipped the chair back on its rear legs, propping one foot on its neighboring chair, and rocking slightly with the other. This was her favorite time of the day, when things in the natural world began to wind down, the fauna of the forest made their respective ways to nest or den, and the cicadas started tuning up for the evening concert.

This ritual had developed over the last three weeks. Initially she'd begun the practice as a purposeful counterpoint to her old habit of working late at the office, a conscious attempt to offset the years of drudgery. Now, though, she did it because it was fun.

She'd started cataloging the various species in the area, and had quite a list of birds and small animals. Several squirrel families and a lone porcupine lived nearby, amply supplied from the mature forest. Finishing her small meal, Wendy pulled out her PA and opened the list, ready to record. Eastern bluebirds she had in plenty, but she knew the western variety occasionally visited these hills as well, and longed to see one.

She held still, scanning the woods, soaking up the renewing energy she felt it provided, and waited. Half-an-hour or so would suffice, before she started in on the evening's work. She quieted herself.

Thrush.

Bluebird, bluebird, wren.

Crow. Same one, same time, every day. The old rogue.

Bluebird.

Thrush. Probably the same one. Never saw more than one at a time.

Bluebird.

Jay. He and the crow had mixed it up a few times.

Bluebird. . . .

Silence.

Nothing.

_Where did everyone go?_

This puzzled her. Usually they were all quite vocal about now. After only a few minutes, she began to have the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched. It grew to the point that she sat forward in her chair and looked all around her, then stood and took a step toward the silent forest, trying to see . . . .

There. At the northeast corner of the house. Wendy's eyes grew large, and she felt an incredulous smile cover her face. _So that's why we don't have any rabbits or chipmunks around._

A large, feral red fox sat at attention, gazing at her intently.

He (she knew, somehow, that it was a male) held his pose for a minute or so, then got to his feet and slowly walked her way, never altering his gait or taking his eyes from hers. Wendy could not believe what she was seeing. _He's magnificent!_ From his high forehead and shining, golden eyes to the long, glossy brush of his tail, his bearing and demeanor spoke of vulpine royalty.

The regal promenade ended when he arrived some three meters from Wendy. He sat on his haunches, resuming his previous appraisal of her. She stared back, hardly daring to move, or even breathe.

_{ { i greet you, daughter } }_

Wendy's muzzle fell open. Those sibilant syllables echoed in her head. She stumbled back and fell into her chair, but managed to keep him in view the whole time.

". . . Who? . . . . How?"

_{ { it is good to see one of the clan on the ancient ground again } }_

". . . But – but . . . how – how are you? . . . ."

_{ { some of us can speak with some of you some of the time } }_

Wendy gaped. "I never knew."

_{ { you have the gift, daughter – we will be watching you } }_ He gave her a wink, then rose and unhurriedly made his way into the forest.

Wendy watched until she could see him no more. She sat in the chair for several additional minutes, working over in her mind the reality of what had just happened. _That __animal__ spoke to me!_ Stories of such happenings were not all that uncommon, heck, popular fiction and nursery tales were full of them. She'd filed them away as urban legend, wishful thinking, pink elephants, or outright fraud.

She got up and gingerly walked over to area just vacated, examining the ground. Kneeling where he had crossed a relatively bare spot, she put her fingers into the small depressions. _Well, his prints are real enough._ She gently smoothed them out.

Standing, she brushed her paws together, knocking the dirt off, and gazed intently into the dappled understory. _I guess I'll have to accept it, on a tentative basis, at least._

Deep in thought, she turned back to the house and walked inside, the remains of her meal forgotten.

##

**A great many people think they are thinking  
****when they are merely rearranging their prejudices.**

**-**_** William James**_

##

_** Friday 08 July 2016 – 8:38pm **_

Sabrina parallel-parked her van in front of the small eatery. _So this is the sprawling metropolis of New Haven Junction._ The sun had set, but still, she could see both ends of town without squinting. _One of those places the travel guide describes as 'picturesque', I guess._

"'Kay, Samantha, here ya go. Don't be too long."

"Thanks, Mom. Be right back." The lithe vixen hustled in to find the restroom.

Sabrina had chosen this place because of the three vehicles lined up along the street in front of it. It was one of very few still open.

Departing at five-thirty that morning, she had allotted eleven hours for the trip, but failed to take into account the varied needs of her younger children. The last time she'd taken a long ride by car without Chris had been almost seven years ago, shortly after Sean arrived. That outing hadn't been this long by a darn sight. And time has a way of softening the edges of unpleasant memories.

This current venture was not-so-gradually turning into a refresher course.

Alice was finally asleep, having screamed and whined ever since supper, an hour and a half ago. Endora (mercifully) had brought her booklight along, and was deeply engrossed in one of the _Redwall_ novels. Sean sprawled out across the rear seat right after their meal; he was still zonked. Daren and Sam could be lively and engaging conversationalists, when they weren't picking on each other, but they seemed more interested in bickering over whose turn it was to ride shotgun than in talking to their mother.

For the thousand-and-third time, she thanked Providence that they had decided to up-size to the twelve-passenger van last year.

Sabrina didn't exactly _regret_ making the trip. She wanted to see Wendy, and truly intended to help in any way she could. But she longed for the good ol' days when she would have had a modicum of energy left at this point. She rested her head against the seat back and closed her eyes.

##

Martin sat in a back corner booth, waiting on Ian to finish up his shift, and nursing a cup of black coffee. Though he was pleased and proud that his little brother had taken the initiative to find a part-time job, he still felt obliged to voice his concern about the hours. Ian stubbornly maintained that his schedule was easier than what Martin had had at his age, which was quite true, owing to Martin's rather unique and unenviable circumstances at the time. Still, Martin, at thirteen, had been more mature than Ian was now, at thirteen. Or so had run Martin's thoughts until tonight.

The half-dozen young male furs at the front two tables had been in the middle of supper when Martin arrived. He'd recognized gang colors as soon as he spotted them: Purebreds, or Knights of the Pure Strains, as they referred to themselves. Four wolves, a red fox, and a weasel. Despite their less-than-perfect conduct, Ian exhibited an excruciatingly correct professionalism in serving them that made Martin's chest swell with pride.

They'd given Martin a cursory glance when he first showed up, and dismissed him as neither threat nor target. And while they could by no means be described as 'quiet', they hadn't been really obnoxious either. That is, until the black vixen walked in.

"What a striking fur pattern," Martin thought. Where other foxes would be red or gray or brown, her fur was an absolute, glossy black. He'd never heard of a black breed of fox, and wondered if she had mixed-species ancestors. He estimated her age at between fifteen and seventeen. She glanced around for a few seconds until she spotted the restrooms, then hurried toward them, passing right by Martin's booth. He noticed the Purebreds noticing her. They went very silent. The red fox had his beer mug halfway to his mouth, and it returned to the table with a clunk, his other paw clenching into a fist.

The gears hummed in Martin's head as he analyzed the situation.

Before the vixen emerged from the restroom, Martin picked up his coffee and moved to the counter, choosing a stool near the path to the door. He couldn't be completely sure which way things might go, and figured some elbow room would be a good idea. He put two dollars on the counter and pulled a pen and a small, ring-bound notebook out of his shirt pocket, in which he began scribbling madly, offering up a quick prayer at the same time. Mrs. Tabb, the elderly cat who owned and ran the restaurant, was occupied with the pastry carousel at the far end of the counter. Martin caught her eye and motioned for her to come over.

Just then the vixen reappeared, so he ripped the page off and laid it down next to the money. He got a better look at her face from his current vantage point, and his eyes widened when he realized just how pretty she really was.

At this time and place, such beauty was not necessarily a good thing.

The red fox got up from his table and intercepted the vixen, blocking her way to the door.

She looked at him, confused. "Excuse me, please." She tried to go around him, but he sidestepped. She put both paws on her hips and frowned at him. "You got a problem, mister?"

He leaned his head to one side, then the other, looking her up and down with cold appraisal. "And just . . . _what_ . . . are you?"

"I don't see how _who_ I am is any of _your_ business." She tried to push past him, but he grabbed her by the arm with one paw and the hair with the other and jerked her back around to face him. She gasped in shock and pain.

Then Martin put him on the floor in a joint lock. He slipped one paw around to the side of the fox's throat and applied pressure as Karl had taught him.

Samantha had noticed the mouse only in passing, having been in something of a hurry. She had never seen anyone move so quickly as he.

The fox's companions jumped up as one and ran over.

"Ye had all better stay back or I'll break this one's arm." Martin's calm voice belied his trip-hammer pulse.

The Purebreds spread out and surrounded the pair of smaller furs. One of the wolves spoke up. "You think you gonna take on six of us, rat? Let him go."

The weasel produced a knife. "Some kinda scumbred-lover? That breed bitch worth dyin' for, kid?"

Martin could tell when the fox lost consciousness. He released him, stood, and backed toward the vixen and the door. "Tis no act of a gentlefur to accost young females, regardless of breed."

The wolf who had spoken first, the one Martin assumed to be their leader, said, "Take him, Ross."

The weasel sprang to the attack. In one fluid series of motions, Martin sprained the weasel's wrist, relieved him of his knife, allowed their momentum to ricochet his attacker's face off the doorjamb, then sent him careening backwards into one of the other wolves. They knocked over a table on their way to the floor.

The three standing wolves watched in mounting anger as the interfering mouse _closed_ the switchblade and slipped it into his pocket.

"You one dead mouse, boy!"

"And why is it that ye be wantin' to do such a thing? What has this lass done to ye?" Samantha tried to make herself as small and inconspicuous as possible behind Martin.

The leader spoke again. "Her existence is sufficient affront."

"And will ye ever see her again in your life? No, probably not." Martin had seen Mrs. Tabb read his note and hurry to the kitchen. He suspected the wolf was correct when he said Martin could not win against all of them. He was playing for time. "Ye knew nothing about this poor girl before tonight. She's no local, she's jist passin' through . . . . ." He kept talking, kept trying to defuse the situation, but he _strongly_ feared it wasn't going to do any good.

##

It took Mrs. Tabb three tries to get the phone number right.

"Hello?"

"Karl! You better get down here to the diner quick! Martin's in a fight."

"On my way." And Mrs. Tabb was holding a dead line.

##

The red fox moaned softly and stirred. One of the wolves helped him sit up. "Ow, ow, ow! Slow down, dammit! What'd he do to my head?" He cradled that member in his paws and leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. The other five slowly closed in around Martin and Samantha. Two brandished brass knuckles, and the weasel, though holding his injured limb close to his body, another knife.

_Oh, Father, I could really use some help about now._

##

Daren sat in the front passenger seat, idly batting the air freshener back and forth, having reasoned that since Samantha had vacated the spot, it was up for grabs again. He wondered what was taking her so long and peered into the restaurant's glass front, to see if he could tell what the holdup was. He sat bolt upright, his hackles jumping erect.

"Mom!"

Sabrina jarred awake. "Huh? Wazzat?"

"Mom, look!" He pointed at the café as he wrenched the door open with his other paw. Sabrina gasped and piled out of her side of the van. They darted toward the front door, skidding to a halt as the brawl spilled out onto the sidewalk.

##

The alpha wolf had a firm grip on Samantha, her arm held cruelly high behind her back. The other four (the red fox still wasn't up to much) had jumped Martin. He'd received a couple of hard, but glancing blows and a light graze along his muzzle from the weasel's knife, but he gave back more than he took. They weren't quite as anxious as they had been to get really close to him. Still, it was all he could do to get the fight outdoors so he had room to maneuver. These lunatics were deadly serious.

Sabrina shouted at the leader, "Let go of my daughter, you thug!"

He pulled a military-style bowie knife from the sheath at his waist and held it across Samantha's throat. "Ah, ah, ah! Wouldn't want things to get messy just yet, now would we?" Repositioning the weapon's tip to a point just below Samantha's jaw, he leaned down close to her ear and whispered, "We must save something for later, right?" Samantha, terrified beyond her ability to reason, only whimpered.

Martin disabled one of the wolves, who sat down hard on the pavement and began rocking back and forth, holding his right knee tightly and moaning. But a slight miscalculation of distance had won the mouse a brutal punch to the point of his left shoulder, and his arm hung like a dead thing. The three assailants left were pressing him hard.

Martin broke free for a second, and used the cars and the spaces between them to limit the number of his foes who could reach him at once, but he was tiring quickly. The weasel and one wolf zipped around the end of a sedan, trying to cut him off, and ran full into Daren's spray. They both hit their knees, coughing and gasping, blinded by the intensely acrid mist.

Daren hiked his pants back up and scampered to the rear of their van. He jerked the door open and pulled out his baseball bat, then ran back to the distressed pair on the pavement and began belaboring them to the best of his ability.

The alpha wolf could see things deteriorating quickly, and shouted, "Back off, you little bastard!" He pulled Samantha around so Daren could see clearly what the wolf intended to do. The young skunk backed away from his victims.

At that moment, a small object _whinged_ out of the darkness and struck the wolf in his right temple. He slid to the sidewalk without a sound, the knife falling from his limp paw. When Daren saw that, he immediately resumed pummeling the two reeking furs.

Martin's remaining attacker caught which way the way the wind was blowing and ran off up the street. He got about twenty meters before a wiry figure stepped out in front of him and demanded, "Hold it!" He pointed a very abbreviated, very large-gauge over-and-under shotgun at the wolf's midriff. The Purebred pulled up short.

The fur with the sawed-off said, "Drop the blade." It dropped. "You want t'keep the use o' your knees, turn around and walk reeeeeal slow back thataway. And keep your paws where I c'n see 'em." The wolf complied.

Karl jogged into the light shed from the restaurant and walked up to Martin. "Are you okay?"

The lean mouse sat on the curb, massaging his left shoulder and trying to catch his breath. "I'll live, thanks. See to yon lass there."

Sabrina had rushed over to Samantha as soon as the wolf hit the ground, and the young vixen was crying softly as she held onto her mother. Sabrina embraced her and spoke in soothing tones. She broke off and stared when the huge wolverine walked up to them.

"Are you hurt, young lady?"

"N – n – n – no . . . . I don't thin-think so." She noticed Martin sitting on the curb. Breaking away from her mother, she ran over to him, throwing her arms around his neck. "Thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-thank-you-!-!-!-!- !" She gave him several forceful kisses on his head and cheek.

Sabrina bent and picked up a small, bronze sphere that lay on the sidewalk beside the fallen wolf, surprised at its weight in her paw.

She looked at Karl and grinned with relief. "This is yours, I take it?"

"Fraid so." He held out his paw.

Sabrina returned the projectile, took Karl's paw and pumped it warmly while craning her neck upward to look at his face. "Oh, I am so glad you happened by!"

"Actually I didn't just 'happen' by. Martin had Mrs. Tabb send up a flare."

Meanwhile, Martin winced under Samantha's onslaught. "Ooh, och, Miss, please! Ye be very welcome. Easy on the shoulder there."

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" She drew back a few centimeters and smoothed the mop of sweat-dampened headfur away from his face. Her brilliant green eyes shone with adoration. "You saved me! You saved my life!" She leaned toward him again, slid her paw around to the back of his head, and planted one full on his mouth. His eyes bugged and his good arm flailed around wildly.

Sabrina intervened. "Honey, I think he's had enough excitement for now." She helped her daughter to stand. "I imagine he needs to see a doctor about that cut on his face."

Martin quickly recovered his composure. "Oh, faith, Ma'am, 'tis just a scratch. Me Mum will fix it right up when I get home."

Mrs. Tabb poked her head out the door, one paw firmly clamped on Ian's shoulder. "Is it safe yet? Oh, Karl, hey, I didn't see you." She released Ian, who ran to his brother and squatted down to look him over.

"Hi! Karl! See what I found!" The shotgun-toting fur, prisoner in the van, came into the light, which revealed him as an elderly calico feline.

"Hey, Tom. Glad to see you had your street-sweeper within easy reach."

"Ayah. Real handy now and then."

Karl checked the condition of the four furs littering the street, copping the wolf's knife in the process. Three were unconscious (Daren had been most thorough with his bat) and the first wolf Martin had taken out lay on his side, still moaning. "Heh! Five on one, Martin, and you're still in one piece. Good work. I'm impressed."

"Five?" This from Samantha. "There were six!" She looked around and squinted into the café. "Where's that low-down fox?"

"She be right, Sir. There was a red fox as started all the ruckus."

"What exactly happened?"

"The rude ones here be Purebreds. It would seem the fox didn't fancy the young Miss's fur pattern. Most unbecoming in his speech and actions, he was."

Samantha interjected, "He's a total jerkface."

Karl looked over at the lovely vixen and chuckled. "More the fool he." He glanced up and down the street. "Tom, you should have no trouble with these idiots." Addressing Mrs. Tabb, he said, "Elly, please call the sheriff." Then he turned to Samantha. "I'll see if I can't locate your fox."

Mrs. Tabb strode briskly into the café to make a phone call, Karl in her wake.

"Humph," muttered Samantha. "He's not _my_ fox."

Daren busied himself dragging the unconscious wolf over to the two he had sprayed. Not really wanting to touch them, he piled the other one on top of them, then went over to stand beside Tom, bat in paw, in case any of them woke up. Tom had carefully chosen his spot several meters upwind of the unfortunate gangsters.

Ian tried to help Martin to stand, whereupon Sabrina and Samantha quickly came to his assistance. They followed Mrs. Tabb inside, at a much more leisurely pace.

##

As soon as Karl had made sure the errant fox was no longer in the restaurant, he headed out the back. Dusk was past, a heavy overcast blocked the starlight, and outside of the incandescent glow that spilled from the open door, the darkness was complete.

He shut the door, waited a few seconds, and concentrated briefly. His perception of the world changed as his senses Augmented, visual details becoming clear, sounds magnifying a dozen-fold, scent trails leaving signatures as unique and readable as road signs. The sudden massive increase in stimuli would have overloaded a normal brain. But then, his wasn't normal.

He located the fox's spoor and loped along in pursuit. He figured the miscreant had, at most, a two-minute head start, but the spacing between his footmarks and the strong, musky residue of fear in his scent led Karl to conclude he'd been sprinting.

The trail led into the thin woods north of town, and away from the main highway. Karl's muzzle twisted in a wry grin. The moron. Obviously didn't know the area at all. His group was probably from one of the cities, on their way to one of the other cities, and stopped here in Outer Hickville to see if they could drum up some fun out of the locals. And, lo and behold, they _had_ managed to create a little entertainment.

Well, _Karl_ was entertained, after a fashion. He increased his pace to about twenty-five klicks, and shortly could hear the fox crashing through the underbrush up ahead. He decided to swing around, get in front, and let the fox run into him_. Heh. I'm __glad__ they stopped in. I haven't had a chance to do this in quite some time._

Yes, definitely entertaining.

##

"So your employer taught you those moves?"

"Ay, that's right, Ma'am."

"If it's okay with you, I go by Sabrina."

"Yes, Ma'am."

Mrs. Tabb had served coffee all around, on the house. She and Ian had picked up those tables and chairs unfortunate enough to be in the way of the fight, and the five of them now sat together in one of the booths.

Samantha's eyes rarely left her rescuer's face. He was beginning to fidget under her pellucid gaze.

"Say, Ian, why don't ye call Mum and let her know we'll be a tich late, eh?"

"Don't fret yore head none over that, Marty," said Mrs. Tabb. "I done called her. Knew she'd be that worried. Told her to get some Epsom salts heated up for yore shoulder."

"I be thanking ye, Ma'am."

Samantha sighed. "I love your accent. Where were you born?"

"Kilmurry, County Clare."

At that juncture all eyes turned to the front window as a blue strobe flickered around the street. The Sheriff's car pulled up in front of the restaurant, and a squat beaver emerged. Deputy Scrugg had arrived. His jaw dropped when he caught sight of the pile of unconscious furs, and he walked slowly over to Tom, taking a pad and pen out of his pocket.

Martin got up gradually, taking great care not to move his shoulder more than necessary. "Guess I'd better go give Toby some answers." He smiled apologetically at the little gathering. "He hates it when something interrupts his evening like this." And he walked delicately outside.

"Oh!" Sabrina's head jerked around to lock on Samantha. "The other kids!" She jumped up and ran out to their van. Jerking the side door open, she peered around intently.

Alice and Sean had a snoring competition going. Flossie was completely immersed in her book and hadn't noticed a thing.

Samantha pulled up beside her mother and surveyed the situation in disgust. "I coulda been dismembered for all they knew!"

"It's probably just as well, honey. They would have gotten upset, and there isn't anything they could do, anyway." She looked down at her eldest daughter and stroked her ponytail. "Maybe _we_ shouldn't mention it right away, either. What do you think?"

Samantha's mouth twisted. "Oh, okay. I guess you're right. It's not like anything really bad happened."

The rotund deputy rolled up to them just then. "Miss Foxx? I'd like to get your statement, please."

##


	11. Chapter 5 Introductions Part C

**_Chapter Five - Introductions_**

##

_** 10:06pm **_

The Grand Dining Room measured ten by fifteen meters and in its heyday had contained enough elaborately carved tables and elegantly upholstered chairs to accommodate close to fifty guests, depending on how things got arranged. Most of the furniture remained, but in a sad state of repair. The ceiling boasted paw-carved details in the beams, moth-damaged brocade backgrounds, and intricate pastoral scenes, some done in oils, some as enameled shields hung in place. And providing light for all this opulence were fifteen large crystal chandeliers. Wendy had dusted and polished her way through six of them this afternoon and evening. She was debating whether to tackle number seven or just clean up her supplies and get ready for bed when her PA buzzed. Glancing at her watch with a frown, she looked then at the caller ID. It displayed the name 'Tabb' and a local number. Nothing she recognized, exactly, but the name tugged at her memory. Figuring it was probably a wrong number, she acknowledged the call.

"Y'ello."

"Wendy?"

_Say what?_ "Sabrina?"

"Hey, stranger."

Wendy got a warm rush. _A familiar voice!_ The intensity of her reaction surprised her: relief, joy, acceptance!

Had it been that long?

She forced herself to calm down, and said, "This is a very unexpected pleasure. Hang on while I sit down." She pulled one of the chairs out and plopped down on it, poofing up a dust cloud. "There. So talk to me."

"Well . . . . . we're in town."

"I thought that was a local number."

"Yeah. Surprise!"

_That sounds one helluva lot better than the last time someone showed up with that word on his lips, and you can bank on that, girl._

"That's wonderful! Where you is?"

"At a little restaurant in New Haven Junction. I'm told it's only another eight klicks or so out to your place, but I was planning on getting there during the day so I could find it . . ."

"Whoa! Back up. You talking to the locals?"

"Well, yeah."

"Okay, good. I didn't want you relying solely on GPS data. They give you directions?"

"Yes, but Mrs. Tabb said I ought to stay here and not bother you, it being so late."

"Horsefeathers. You'd _**better**_ come on out here. D'you drive?"

"Yep. I've got the kids with me."

_Uh-oh._ ". . . . . Which ones?"

"All of 'em."

"Uhhhhhhh. . . . ."

"But they can sleep in the van if you don't have room."

"Oh, no. . . . No, no, room is not a problem." She glanced around at the six-hundred-plus cubic meters of space in this one room and thought about the rest of the house. "Not a problem at all."

"Okay, if everything's copasetic. I didn't really know if you'd still be up at this hour."

"Oh, sure. I'm a regular night-owl anymore. Trip took longer than you thought it would?"

"Ohhhh, boy. Then we ran into a little snag once we got here. I'll tell you all about it later; right now I just want to get going, so we can get there, so I can get some sleep. I'm all in."

"Well come on! I'll leave a lantern in the window."

"We'll be there in a few, then.

##

_** Saturday 09 July 2016 – 8:07am **_

"Alice, come sit down, honey."

"Wanna see da wown woom, Mommy!"

"We'll go see it after breakfast. Eat first, see the room later."

"Wanna see da wown woom!" The tiny skunkette stomped both feet repeatedly.

Sabrina started to get up and apply a more direct form of discipline, but Daren got there first.

"Come 'ere, Squirt!" Daren scooped her up, flipped her over, and deposited her, whooping with laughter, on his left shoulder, a trick he'd recently picked up from his father. It rarely failed to mollify, but carried with it the penalty of having to iterate the performance many, many times. Fortunately, Alice was no bigger than a minute, as her Granpa Sarge would have said, and Daren tended to be a little meatier than most boys his age. In this stop-and-start fashion, he made his way over to stand next to his twin sister.

Samantha lingered in front of one of the tall windows, arms crossed, gazing out the south end of the house at the sun-speckled lawn stretching away to the trees a hundred meters or more off. She had been unusually quiet this morning, teasing or no, and Daren didn't know what to make of it. Their picking at one another was simply a facet of life. Like breathing, y'know?

But then, he hadn't had a knife blade pressed against his neck the night before, either.

She spoke quietly, breaking the silence. "Thanks, Dare."

"Huh?"

She turned her head to look him in the eye, the very picture of sober gratitude. "Martin was great last night, and I guess I, y'know, owe him my life, as the saying goes, but you were great, too. I don't think he'd've come out of that fight in one piece if you hadn't sprayed two of 'em."

Daren grinned self-consciously. "Should I say 'Aw shucks' now?"

"You were really brave." Samantha gave him a quick hug. "I'm proud you're my brother."

He blushed for real then. "Oh, cut it out. I didn't do nothin' any other skunk in my place wouldn'ta done. You know how I feel about bullies just anyhow. _'Specially_ bullies that go after my family." Alice tired of the conversation and slid off his shoulder to run back to her mother. Daren grinned and glanced furtively back at Sabrina. "Besides, I'd never had a chance to see if my private practice sessions were doing me any good, aim-wise. I'm just glad I had some musk. If I'd been practicing this week, I wouldn't have had any left to speak of."

"Not so loud," his sister cautioned, her voice very low. "Mom'll hear you."

The door in the center of the east wall opened and Wendy came in pushing a large, wheeled multi-leveled cart-thing that almost groaned under the weight of breakfast. She had prepared a nice ham-cheese-onion omelet, a couple of broiled grapefruit, several sticky-buns and bagels (with three flavors of cream cheese), a large bowl of hash-browns, a decent-sized pile of crisp bacon, and a tall stack of buttermilk-buckwheat pancakes. To drink, she had a pitcher of cold milk, another of orange juice, and a sizeable pot of fresh-ground Honduran coffee. Sabrina took a deep whiff of the steaming beverage, eyes closed.

"That wouldn't be Antiguan, would it?"

Wendy smiled at her friend. "You're pretty good."

Sabrina hopped up to help her set the various dishes on the chosen table. "My word, Wendy! You didn't have to put on such a spread on our account."

"Speak for yourself, Mom," Daren put in. "It looks just about right to me."

Each of the seven furs picked a chair, and they all tucked in.

Wendy asked, "Did you sleep okay? I'm awfully sorry I didn't have any beds ready for you."

"Oh, please!" Sabrina put on her shocked-that-you-would-think-such-a-thing face and wagged a finger at her friend. "That's why we brought the blankets and air mattresses. How could I possibly expect you to have rooms all fixed up and waiting for us? That's what I came up here to help you with!" She took another bite of omelet and rolled her eyes around. "This is heavenly. And yes, we slept like rocks." She turned to Daren. "You snore, kiddo."

He just grinned at her. "It's in my job description."

"That's as may be. For the rest of the week, your job description includes looking after Sean and Alice." She put up a paw to forestall any protest. "And Samantha will look after Flossie and Alice. And before we get into that debate about committees doing away with individual responsibility, I want to make it clear that Alice-watching is a tag-team effort." She gave each of the twins a level stare. "We all singing off the same sheet of music, here?"

"Yes, Mom."

"Yes, Mom."

"Very good. I'm going to be helping Aunt Wendy, and unless the problem involves uncontrolled flame or arterial bleeding, I want you two to handle it."

"Okay."

"Will do."

Sabrina nodded. "Right."

Samantha commented wistfully while spreading her bagel with strawberry-cream cheese, "I wish Dad coulda come along."

"So do I honey. It's not like he didn't want to. But he couldn't very well miss the first Leadership Team conference they've had since he got promoted."

"Yeah. I guess."

"How's that going? The promotion, I mean." Wendy wanted to know.

"About the same. Longer hours, less fun. Can't kick about the raise he got, though. We paid off the van out of his first three paychecks."

"Heh. Moving up in the world."

"Something like that, I suppose. Don't get to see him as much as either of us would like, if you get my drift."

Wendy cocked an eyebrow. "You're not worried about him, umm . . ."

"Oh, heavens, no." She dimpled as a couple of recent memories skirted her mind. "I'd say not."

"Well, that's good."

They all concentrated on the excellent breakfast for the next several minutes.

Alice finished first, having bolted her pancake and sippy-cup of milk, and jumped down to run over next to Wendy. She tugged on the vixen's sleeve, almost making her drop her bagel. "Wanna see da wown woom!"

Sabrina sighed, "One-track mind. Wendy, she got a glimpse of that Folly thing last night as we were coming in. I guess nothing else will do 'til she's seen it from the inside. D'you mind?"

Wendy was delighted to show off her acquisition. "Heck no. Just let me get on the outside of the rest of this bagel and I'll give you the dollar tour."

A couple of minutes later Wendy led the two skunkettes out to the South Hall. The other Foxx children stayed at the table, complimenting the chef, and continued until there was nothing left to compliment.

##

_** 10:55am **_

Sean had discovered the copper beech. Disneyland should hold such allure.

The immense old hardwood had obviously been designed for climbing. Its branches exited the trunk at ninety-degree angles and maintained a nice parallel attitude with the ground. They grew close enough together so that reaching from one to the next was never a problem, and the bark was just rough enough to offer a good grip without being abrasive. From near the top of the tree, some thirty-five meters above the earth, the view was passing fair. He liked that phrase, and said it out loud. "Passing fair." It rolled off the tongue with style. Flossie had read it to him from one of her fantasy books, only it had been some knight or cobbler or somebody talking about a princess or milkmaid or somebody. Sean thought it applied much more readily to the forested hills hereabouts. He would _definitely_ have to bring some wood up here and knock together a treehouse. Assuming they stayed long enough.

"Sean?" Daren's voice wafted up to him from the depths. The young fox's first inclination was to ignore it, but being a basically obedient child (Chris and Sabrina expected no less from their offspring and thus were rarely disappointed) he called back down, "I'm up here!"

"I know you're up there! That's the problem! If Mom knew you were that high by yourself, she'd totally wad!"

"So come on up. What's stopping you?"

". . . Okay." And a few minutes later Daren was perched on a sturdy limb, just as entranced with the view as his little brother had been.

##

Flossie, having finished The Pearls of Lutra, forbore beginning the next _Redwall_ book in favor of rummaging through the garden shed with Alice and Samantha. She found any number of likely candidates to fill a flower bed, and ran back inside to get Wendy's approval. The two adult furs had picked up the chandelier-polishing where Wendy had left off the night before.

"Sure, kiddo, fine by me," was the reply when Wendy saw the seed packets. "Where did you have in mind to plant them?"

"Along the driveway. On both sides."

"Fair enough. But you probably ought to stick with the zinnias for now. They love full sun. Pinks and impatiens do better in partial sun."

"Okay! Thanks!" And she spent the next hour happily dropping seeds into small holes.

##

Alice led Samantha a merry chase around the house. For such a small child, her speed was a bit unsettling. Samantha, however, was used to Alice's tricks, and had no trouble keeping her in sight. She did have to chase her away several times from the unkempt pile of splintered beams and boards that had been the horse barn.

The tiny skunkette kept up a running patter of questions, typically, "Whas dis?" Samantha rattled off a one- or two-word reply most of the time, but stopped short when Alice indicated a round, white, plastic cover of some kind out beside the garden shed.

Samantha ran her paws over its surface. It stood a shade under a meter tall and stretched maybe seventy centimeters across its diameter, and seemed to just sit there on the ground. Curiously, the two young furs tried to tip it over. When that didn't work, Samantha grabbed it near the top and pulled straight up. It came up easily, revealing a block of foam insulation. She lifted that, too, and was rewarded with the sight of a rickety-looking arrangement of rusty pipes and moldy electrical wires sticking out of a hole in the ground.

"What in the world is this thing?" She spoke aloud, but Alice made no reply. Instead, the little girl walked over to the shed, picked up a brick lying next to its foundation, and brought it back to the pipe-contraption. Samantha was leaning on her paws, trying to see down the hole, and didn't notice what Alice held.

The skunkette moved right up next to her sister, said, "Scoose me," and dropped the brick into the hole.

"_**Alice!**_" Samantha was horrified. "What'd you do that for?" From the depths, she heard a clang, then a thud, then another clang, and one of the pipes shuddered slightly. Then it settled about five centimeters.

Samantha's paws flew to her muzzle. "!"

Alice just squatted down next to the hole and listened.

##

Sabrina filled Wendy in on the details of the previous night's adventure while they cleaned the chandeliers.

"Then when that humongous wolverine knocked him out with a metal ball, the last one standing ran off down street and . . ."

"What?"

Wendy's reaction startled Sabrina. "Huh?"

"What humongous wolverine?" She doubted there could be two in the area fitting that description.

"Mr. Luscus. Turns out he's Martin's boss, and he's the one that . . ."

Wendy's eyes flew even wider. "_Martin?_"

"Uhh . . . yeah. Martin O'Musca. He's the dormouse I was talking about. See, he moved here with his family from . . ."

". . . from Ireland. I know. I've met him. And Mr. Luscus."

"Really? That's too cool! How'd you meet him?"

"They run the Fixit Shop in town. Well, Karl owns it, and Martin is kind of an apprentice of sorts."

"Karl?"

"Karl Luscus. The wolverine."

Sabrina dimpled. "You on a first-name basis already? I knew you could move fast, but . . ."

"Oh, cut that out!" How to explain their connection? "Mr. Luscus was a close friend of my uncle's. I found out about that when I met him at his shop. Uncle Julian had set up an account for me there."

"Ah." Sabrina nodded. "Nothing romantic, then?"

"Oh, heavens, no!" Wendy put up both paws to ward off the idea.

"Well, anyway, between Martin, Daren, and Mr. Luscus, those rotten Purebreds got the tar beat out of 'em. It was so funny when Mr. Luscus came back with the fox. He was holding him in one paw, like an empty sack, and just gave him a toss onto the pile with the other three." She nodded slightly to herself. "He's gotta be awfully strong."

"As big as he is, I'm not surprised."

"He's polite, though, a real gentlefur. They both are. I think Samantha's quite taken with Martin."

Wendy chuckled, then peered into her bucket of wash-water. "'brina, this water's gone dirty again. Would you be a dear and swap it for some of the clean stuff?" She held out the container.

"That's what I'm here for." Taking the bucket of slimy, dark gray liquid, she trooped off to the kitchen.

A minute later she was back. "Wendy, there's no water."

"No water?"

"None."

"Not even a drip?"

"Nothing."

_Oh, that is not good_. "Lemme take a look at it."

The spigot performed no better for her than it had for Sabrina. She fiddled with it briefly, then happened to glance out the window. She spotted the girls.

"Oh, CRAP!"

"What?"

Wendy's voice slid down the scale to the 'dejection' setting. She pointed at the garden shed. "Look at that."

Sabrina saw her daughters on their knees beside some pipes and got a sinking feeling in her gut. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Uh-huh. That's the well."

"Oh, CRAP!"

Wendy glanced over at her. "Don't step on my lines, eh?"

"Sorry." Sabrina consulted the script briefly, nodded, then turned to look at her friend. "Now what?"

"Hmm. Now I guess we get to find out just how versatile Mr. Luscus really is."

##

Martin sat in front of one of the workbenches in the rear of the shop, a jeweler's loupe in one eye, concentrating on the miniscule soldering tool in his left paw. His sling lay on a chair nearby, neatly folded, but he didn't expect to need it. Apart from his shoulder being _really_ sore to the touch, he could use his left arm almost normally, and besides, he hated the restricted movement the sling would force on him. His mother's liniment was prime stuff, and allowed him to move the limb often enough to keep the kinks worked out.

He cocked an ear when the shop phone rang. Karl had some kind of hush-hush project in the basement and might not want to answer it, so if the phone made it to three rings Martin intended to pick it up. But the sound cut off in the middle of the second ring, and Martin could just barely make out the echo of his employer's voice downstairs. He went back to the control loop circuit and used the fine-point tweezers to position one of the tiny components on the board. He carefully brought the soldering tool into contact, his paws rock-steady.

A few minutes later, Karl popped his head out of the stairwell and asked, "You at a good stopping place?"

Martin considered his work. "It'll do. What's up?"

"We got an emergency call. Main well pump quit over at the Vulpin place. I thought you might like to help fix it."

"Sure, an' I would! Give me two shakes to put up me tools and I'll be right along."

"Good. I'll make sure we have what we need on the truck." He made as if to head down-cellar, but then thought of something and turned back. "I know it's almost lunchtime. You might want to bring yours along."

"Will do. Thanks for remembering."

##

_**Author's Note:**_

_**The suggested soundtrack for this section is**_

_**"The Fire Still Burns" by Dragonforce**_

. . .

. . .

. . .

##

_** 11:38am **_

Karl maneuvered the oversize dually around next to the well head, the truck's ninety-decibel backup signal announcing his presence. He backed it slowly until less than a meter separated the pipes from the tailgate.

Martin had hopped out to direct traffic. He began unloading various pieces of equipment as soon as the vehicle stopped. Karl activated the hydraulic side-bracing struts, and soon the truck achieved a good approximation of immobile.

Wendy and her guests had heard the warning claxon, and came out on the lawn to watch. Samantha's eyes lit up when she spotted Martin. She grabbed her mother's arm. "Mom! You didn't tell me _he_ was coming out here." She looked down at her clothes: old, baggy jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off. She pinched a bit of the fabric and held it away from her. "Ewww!" A quick glance flicked from Martin to Sabrina and back to Martin. "I'll be right back." She sprinted for the house.

Sabrina shook her head and gave Wendy a wry grin. "I was right. I think I may have something of a crush on my paws here."

Wendy nodded without comment. She was watching the two males set up a weird-looking contraption over the well head. It hung from a boom mounted in the bed of the truck. Made of highly-polished metal, it stood some two meters tall and had three extendable legs that Karl had embedded deeply in the hard soil, and two . . . well, Wendy couldn't come up with a good description. Manipulators, maybe? Two arm-things hanging down from a centrally-located housing of some sort. The whole mechanism was massively constructed, the smallest member at least ten centimeters thick. It looked like it could hold up a building.

Wendy wandered over to stand beside the truck. She deemed it a safe-enough spot, and it gave her a good vantage point to view the proceedings. Sabrina kept her crowd several meters farther away.

Karl had detached the top end of the pump's power cord and wound it onto a small drum that hung suspended from the rear of the central housing. He pulled a pendant control out of the truck and started playing with the joysticks. The tripod device came to life. One of the arms reached down and grasped the top of the pipe, slowly pulling it up until a meter of it stuck out of the ground. Then the second arm gripped the pipe at ground level and began lifting it while the first one released it and moved back. Wendy noted that the housing was off-center about twenty centimeters, which allowed the pipe to come straight up out of the hole with no obstruction. Meanwhile, the electrical cable ended up on the drum, which spun under some kind of constant-tension-clutch arrangement.

The arms went through two more iterations of lifting and passing off, so about three meters of pipe was exposed. Then one of the manipulators swung around and up and gripped the pipe half-a-meter above the housing, at which point a much smaller arm moved out of the housing and made contact with the pipe. In about a second the pipe parted, and the small arm retracted. Then the manipulator holding the now-loose piece of pipe laid it on the ground on the far side of the truck, and the whole process repeated itself.

Karl glanced over at her. "Ms. Wylde, do you have any idea how deep this well is?"

She turned to look at him. "None whatsoever."

He chuckled. "Hard to give you an estimated time of completion, then."

"Please! Don't worry about that. I'm absolutely thrilled that you could even get out here today. I mean, it's Saturday, and goodness, it's been, what? Less than an hour since the thing got broken. I never got plumbing service like that back home, that's for sure."

He just grinned to himself and concentrated on operating the removal rig.

Wendy watched it work in fascination. After a minute she said, "That is one weird-looking machine. Where'd it come from?"

"Oh, here and there."

Her head pivoted around to stare at him. "And what does that mean?"

He shrugged. "It's not a standard, off-the-shelf item."

She thought about that and came to a conclusion. "You built it, didn't you?"

He wasn't meeting her eyes. "What if I did?"

She made a fist and tapped a knuckle against her muzzle as she regarded him. This fellow was quite a study.

"You built that really incredible sound system, too." It wasn't a question this time.

He shrugged. "Everybody needs a hobby."

"Just what the hell are you doing stuck out here in the wilds of west Vermont?"

That startled him. "Beg pardon?"

"I may not be up on robotics, but I know top-notch audio equipment when I hear it. Anyfur with your talent ought to be heading up a design firm, or working for NASA, or something. Not piddling around with a run down repair shop in the sticks."

He sighed, but didn't say anything.

"So, why aren't you?"

"Why am I not what?"

"Why aren't you somewhere besides here?"

"I _like_ here."

"Why aren't you doing something with your abilities?"

"I am. I'm keeping a lot of the equipment in a five-county area running."

She found his answer most vexing. "Why aren't you taking society by storm with your stereo?"

An expression of distaste had settled on his face. "Been there, done that, got the T-shirt."

She sensed from his reaction that she might be prodding a sleeping dragon by pursuing this topic._ Musta been a child prodigy, then._ "Y'gotta admit, it's a pretty odd scenario. You can't blame a girl for being curious."

"As you say." His face had geared back to neutral.

_Huh. Mister Non-committal. _

After a couple more meters of pipe came out of the hole, Karl said, "Ms. Wylde, I have a quotation for you if you're interested."

"Apropos to this situation?"

"Of course."

"Well then, by all means, fire away."

"_To love what you do and feel that it matters – how could anything be more fun?"_

"Who said that?"

"Katherine Graham."

"Graham . . . Graham . . . Didn't she run some big paper or something?"

"Yes. The Washington _Post_."

"Uh-huh. And do you really feel that way about what you do here?"

"I do."

"Hmh." _Takes all kinds._ "Ooookee-fine."

She contented herself with watching the thing do its job. Karl had evidently finished teaching it what to do and so did not need to work the pendant control himself anymore. He just watched it, as well. After a bit, Sabrina got bored with the process and took her kids back inside. Several minutes and almost a hundred and thirty meters of pipe later, the pump itself came to light. And a sorry sight it was. Karl used the manipulator to position the rusted mass where he could easily examine it. It didn't take him long to make a diagnosis.

"It's toast."

Wendy cursed under her breath, then asked, "No can fix, huh?"

"I'm frankly flabbergasted that the thing ran as long as it did."

_Shoot._ "Howsabout a replacement?"

"Well, I don't have one with me. I can probably get one from a distributor up in Burlington, though. Let me find out." He went to the cab of the truck for his audio.

It was about then that Samantha reappeared. She walked up behind Martin, who was squatting on the other side of the truck, wrapping a lifting sling around the cut sections of old pipe, and said, "Hi! Whatcha doin'?"

He started to reply, "Oh, jist getting' these pipes ready to . . ." but then he glanced back over his shoulder at her. His voice trailed off, and he stood abruptly.

_**[ Now, one thing you must realize, Gentle Reader, is that Sabrina's eldest daughter was precocious in more ways than one. Although just thirteen, she had completed the tenth grade, and had never had any trouble fitting in with her high school peer group. Fairly tall, and well-proportioned, she had easily passed for late teens on more than one occasion, a fact which would have distressed her parents mightily had they been aware of the circumstances. This is not by way of saying that she was in any respect a bad or disobedient child. Just more adventurous than one had any right to expect.**_

_**A second thing to keep in mind is that Martin had figured her age at very near his own, and since the topic never came up in their conversation, no one had yet corrected his assumption. **_

_**Thirdly, in 2011 the age of majority in Vermont had been lowered to sixteen.**_

_**Just so you know. ]**_

She stood before him, paws demurely clasped behind her back, one leg slightly ahead of the other. Her black, silky headfur draped her left shoulder in a long ponytail, a white rosebud fastened in it just below her ear. She'd donned a brief, sleeveless sundress of unblemished white taffeta that served to accentuate her more obvious gender-linked characteristics. Her lucent green eyes locked onto his, a smile playing around her lips.

"I, uh, I was jist, umm, . . . we'll be takin' these, uh, . . . these things are, uh . . . the pipes go with us."

In two steps she was _right_ beside him. "Oh! That is so _nice_ of you." The sundress swished against his legs, and a waft of light, musky perfume tickled his nose, mixing with her own fresh scent and the faint aroma the rose gave off. She was only a few centimeters shorter than he, but this close she had to tilt her head upward a little to meet his eyes.

His mind raced around in spirals. He had _no idea_ what to do or say. He'd been too busy the last four years helping his mother keep potatoes on the table and shingles between their heads and the rain to pursue any female entanglements, and since apprenticing to Karl, he _always_ had something to occupy his attention during the waking hours. It wasn't as though he never thought about girls, not by any means. He just hadn't had occasion to do anything about it yet. There had seldom been many available girls in this area.

What it was he was in, was a pickle.

"Uh, well, it's good, uh, business practice. Jist bein' polite, like." Her scent made him slightly giddy.

She put a paw on his upper arm and leaned (if possible) a little closer. "I just knew someone as thoughtful and kind as you would be a responsible worker, too."

Karl stuck his head out of the passenger side window and called Martin over.

Gently extracting his arm, he said, "Eh, umm, excuse me, uh, Miss Foxx." With _intense_ relief, the young mouse made his escape. He hurried over to Karl. "Yessir?"

"Martin, it looks like I'll have to make a trip up to Burlington this afternoon. I shouldn't be gone more than an hour and a half, but I'm going to need more room in the truck bed. Would you please go ahead and remove the puller and its peripheral equipment? You can lay its boom on the grass over there." He indicated a spot a little apart from the truck.

"Sure thing, sir." And he turned to go. But Samantha was _right_ behind him and they nearly collided. He turned back to Karl and asked, "Would ye be needin' any help?" His eyes begged an answer that, sadly, was not forthcoming.

Karl fought a grin. "No, that's all right, Martin, I'll be fine. You can stay here, have a nice, leisurely lunch, then go ahead and set up the rig to install the outer course of PVC. You'll be using the two-oh-five series grippers. That's mostly why I need the extra room, see, because I'll be bringing the pipe back with me. And I'll need that sling, too."

Martin looked from his boss to Samantha. She piped up, "I'll help you, Martin!" and took his arm in both of hers.

He grinned weakly. "Swell."

Karl got out of the truck and stepped over to talk with Wendy. Sabrina, having missed Samantha, was back looking for her. She spotted her daughter.

"Samantha Dianne Foxx!" Sabrina had her paws on her hips. "What on earth are you doing out here in that nice dress? If you got any grease on it . . ."

"Oh, no, Mom! See?" She released Martin's arm and twirled a quick pirouette, the tip of her ponytail _snikking _across his neck. She re-appropriated the young mouse's arm and led him toward Sabrina. "We're going to work on that big robot thingy after lunch. Martin's going to teach me all about it."

Martin looked as if he'd rather be force-fed worms.

Sabrina noted his discomfort and sniggered to herself. "Well, that's nice, dear, but you'll have to change into some work clothes. Right Martin?"

He sighed heavily. It seemed there would be no reprieve. "Yes, Ma'am. That would be a good idea."

Samantha gave his arm a final squeeze, and said, with a dazzling smile, "Don't be too long!" Then she followed her mother toward the Manor, glancing back at him now and then.

Karl and Wendy gave each other the identical "knowing look" as they watched Martin walk to the back of the truck, shaking his head and muttering constantly.

"That boy never knew what hit him," she observed.

Karl nodded in agreement. "Got that right."

**End of Chapter Five**


	12. Chapter 6 Fits and Starts Part A

**Gone Wylde**

by Clint McInnes

**_Chapter Six – Fits and Starts - Part A_**

**Never attribute to malice any act which is adequately explained by stupidity.**

**- **_**Hanlon's Razor**_

##

_** Wednesday 13 July 2016, 9:44am **_

Daren and Flossie carried a hamper apiece, each overflowing with dirty clothes, to the newly designated wash-room near the northeast corner of the house. The heavy rain during the first two days of the week had generated lots of mud-stained duds, but yesterday a huge industrial washer and dryer set had arrived. Wendy got them from a used-equipment dealer on the internet, and looked forward to being able to do something about the laundry. She would need to have this particular duck in the row when paying guests started hanging around.

They came through the doorway (Wendy had removed the door itself) and found their hostess transferring wet clothes from the washer to the dryer. Each front-loading machine was designed to handle almost forty kilograms of clothes, but they were nearly thirty years old and looked like they'd been to the wars and back. Wendy finished her task, closed the huge, round door, and started the thing. The clothes began spinning around merrily.

"Hey, guys. Thanks for giving me a hand."

Flossie dropped her hamper beside the washer with a _huff_. "That thing's heavy!"

Daren snickered. "Spend too much time with your nose stuck in books, Floss. Need to exercise more."

She blew him a raspberry.

Wendy pulled out a tape measure and gauged the distance between the side of the dryer and the wall. She intended to put in a clothes-folding table and the other peripherals needed for a smoothly-running laundry. The cabinets sitting against the wall by the door had come from one of the storerooms upstairs. She would mount them next to the washer to hold her supplies.

"Well, folks, let's get this mess sorted." She indicated three large, mesh containers. "Darks in this basket, whites in this one, reds and pinks and purples in this one."

The three furs got about halfway through the task when the dryer started making a _clunk_ with each revolution. It got quickly louder, alarming Wendy. She moved over in front of it, and reached to open the door, but with a final clunk and a mechanical shriek, it stopped cold. They heard a faint _zizzist_ sound, and a thin stream of smoke curled up from under the machine.

Wendy smacked the dryer's door. "_Damn-fuckin-nation!_"

Daren looked over at her in shock. Flossie's mouth dropped open, then she said, "Oooo, Aunt Wendy, you're not s'posed to use those words.

"Sorry, Flossie." The irritated vixen pursed her lips and stared at the silent appliance. "Piece o' junk." She pulled out her PA, flipped it open, and hit the autodial for the Fixit Shop.

##

_** 1:12pm **_

The closing of the front door cut down on the noise from the two big mowers working on the front lawn. Karl followed Wendy through the house to the laundry. She apologized again for taking up so much of his time, but he waved it off. "You really shouldn't worry about it."

"Is that right?"

"That's my studied opinion. I could make three house calls a week for the next fifteen years on what Julian set up."

She looked at him, wide-eyed. It had never occurred to her to inquire as to the size of the account, or its expected duration, but now her curiosity was aroused. "What kind of arrangement did you two cook up, anyway?"

"_We_ didn't cook up anything. This is all his doing. He insisted. It's formatted a little like a trust. The shop gets a monthly draw from the interest, and if we don't have occasion to use it, the residual rolls over to another interest-bearing account at higher-risk-higher-payoff. If the costs run past the draw, I'm to pull the overage from the profits off that high-risk account. So far, about half of the draw has ended up there, some six thousand dollars, and it's pulling down rather better than thirty-two percent."

She nearly stumbled. "_**Holy Shit!**_"

"Yep."

"_Damn!_"

He raised an eyebrow at her. "I guess Julian must have thought a lot of you."

"Then why didn't he just include that money with the house? Lord knows, I could use it!"

He reflected on her question for a moment before answering. "I know he wanted to be sure you didn't have any maintenance worries. The most obvious explanation is that he simply overcompensated. He still had episodes of odd behavior, you know, right up to the end."

"So it's a trust?"

"Something similar. I'm not cognizant of the details. The bank is over in Bristol, if you'd like to check it out. You want their number?"

She nodded. "If it's no bother. I'd like to find out as much as I can about it, if only to get it settled in my mind." They stopped at the doorway to the laundry. She tilted her head and stroked the side of her muzzle, frowning a little. "Did you . . . ever wonder why he sank so much cash into this . . . arrangement?"

"He wouldn't explain his reasons, and I had learned early in our friendship not to argue with him when he got that way. You must understand, he never described you at all, and I assumed (incorrectly) that his concern was due to your advanced age. Frankly, I expected you to be pushing seventy." He moved over to stand before the dryer. "That you are actually well under half that was a shock."

She gave him an inscrutable smile.

He set his toolbox down and examined the dryer. "What a beat-up old war-horse." He opened the door, reached in and gave the drum a spin, bringing forth a loud, staccato chorus from underneath. "HI'll have to take a look at the back."

"Oh, hey, I've still got the dolly they used to set it up! Lemme go get it."

"That won't be necessary. It doesn't look too heavy."

Wendy was about to protest. It had taken two of the burly furs from the delivery company, _and_ the dolly, to get it in place. But before she could say so, Karl squatted, took hold of the bottom of the frame, and pulled.

"Karl, wait!"

The back of his shirt rippled as the huge muscles bunched and rolled – and with a high-pitched scraping noise, the dryer slid out over a meter. He stood up and worked his shoulders side to side.

"Hmmm. A touch heavier than it looks." He flexed his paws, waving them back and forth a few times, then caught sight of Wendy's shocked expression. "What?" He looked at the dryer, ran a paw along one edge. "Did I bend something?"

Her response (after a few seconds of silence) was a low whistle. Staring at him, she said, "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

He shrugged a little and gave her a grin. "Basic physics. It's really more a matter of know-how than most furs think. You, for example, are probably much stronger than you realize. You just don't know how to apply that strength effectively."

"I'll take your word for it. If you'd seen those delivery guys grunt and sweat . . ."

"And waste most of their energy, no doubt." He went around to the rear of the machine and began removing screws from the cover.

"Yeah, well. If you say so." She moved to the doorway. "I've got a zillion things calling me upstairs, so let me know what you find out, okay?"

"Roger."

She pounced on the straight line. "No, no. I keep telling you, it's _Wendy_."

He jerked upright, his head whipping around in her direction. For several seconds he gave her a _most_ unreadable look, then shook himself loose and went directly back to work without further comment.

##

_** 1:48pm **_

Wendy sat at the kitchen table, probing the burnt-out drive motor. "So you're just going to have Martin rewind it?"

Karl nodded. "Right. It'll be good practice for him, and at the very least three days faster than ordering a replacement motor, assuming they have one in stock, which I doubt."

"Why wouldn't they?"

"Because the OEM stopped producing this motor in 1997."

". . . Oh." She frowned at him. "How do you keep track of such obscure pieces of information? Have you dealt with dryers like this before?"

"Dryers, no – motors, yes. A small number of companies make the motors used in a wildly disparate array of machines. I've used and repaired Baldor motors for years because one finds them all over."

"So you just _happen_ to be on a first-name basis with a motor that was made when you were a kid?" She was taking a shot in the dark with that. No longer so sure of her initial estimate of his age, given what she'd seen lately of his skills, she thought to try for some harder data. Several of the references he'd made of places he'd been and things he'd done simply didn't jibe with his being under thirty, no matter _what_ he smelled like.

His muzzle curling into a smile, he laced his fingers together in front of him on the table and leaned toward her marginally. "Do you remember the name of your second grade teacher?"

"Huh?"

"Just answer the question, please."

"Mrs. VanMorton."

"Ah, no hesitation, very good. And how many years have elapsed in the interim?"

_Where is this going?_ ". . . More than I care to dwell on, thanks. What's your point?"

"I have been working with these types of components for a long time."

_Long time. What's his definition of 'long' I wonder?_

"I took the trouble to memorize a great deal of data concerning them because I dislike looking things up in tables. Memorization is not such a trick. Anyfur with the motivation could do the same."

"I see." _Heck. Maybe I should just go ahead and ask him his age point blank._

"Good." He stood and picked up the motor. "We'll have it back no later than Saturday."

"Ummm . . . right. Thank you." _Okay, maybe next time._

They said their farewells and he left.

##

_** Thursday 14 July 2016, 9:12am **_

The group of sleigh bells hung above the door jingled merrily as Wendy and Samantha entered the general store. Quinn glanced up from his spot beside the stove, and nodded to them.

Samantha craned her neck to look around at the array of merchandise. "Golly, this place is big!"

"Right you are. It's mighty handy to have it situated so close to home, too. I could go over to Bristol for any specialty items I just had to have, if I needed 'em in a hurry, but practically everything I've found a real need for, Quinn's had it. He's done a few special-orders for me, and he knows what he's talking about if he makes a recommendation." She pointed off to the right. "The shelf-stable food items are over that way, frozen things, too. Got your list?"

She whipped it out. "Right here."

"Have at it. You can use one of those baskets over there."

The younger femme eyed the indicated containers dubiously. "Gonna take more than one." She looked down her list. "At least three, I'd say."

"Best get busy, then."

The black head nodded once, and she walked off to do her shopping.

Wendy watched her for a few seconds, then headed straight for the aged raccoon. She asked, without preamble, "Quinn, have you ever had a wild animal talk to you?"

"Ayah."

The utter lack of hesitation in his answer startled her. "Really? When?"

"Be last Friday night. Those idjit Bobcat brothers from Haven came in, drunk as sailors. Yammered at me for a good hour."

Wendy's grimace spoke accurately of her frustration with his response, and grew significantly when he only grinned in return. She looked over to where she could hear Samantha, then turned back to him and hissed, "You know what I mean!"

"Do I, now?"

Wendy knelt by his rocker and put a paw on his arm. "Please, Quinn! I'm serious. Have you ever heard of a feral actually communicating with a fur? For real?"

His expression quickly faded from mirth to solemnity. "You _are_ serious, aren't you?"

Her solemn expression gave full assent to his question.

He looked away for a few seconds, folded his paper and set it on the floor, rubbed his snout with both paws and leaned back, closing his eyes. He laid his right paw on Wendy's shoulder. "You feel like tellin' me aboot it?"

She gave him a quick summary of what she'd seen, and what the fox had 'said' to her.

He listened to the story, then nodded once, slowly. "Ayah. Happens some. Happened to me when I was just a boy. The CCC was puttin' a road through, and I followed along behind 'em one day. They was clearin' the land, makin' a place for the road-bed, and stirrin' up all sorts of trouble with the critters. I come upon a hollow tree that'd been knocked over, and there by the roots was what was left of a raccoon den. They was two little uns in the den, both of 'em dead. I stood there and looked at 'em, sortly shocked-like, when the mama 'coon came runnin' up. She seen her kits lyin' there, and looked up at me, and I heard her voice in my head. She asked me, 'Why didn't you stop them? My children are dead. Why didn't you stop them?' It scared me s'bad I ran off right then." He found Wendy's eyes. "Couple of my friends had the same thing happen to them. Always a species match, 'coon for 'coon, squirrel for squirrel, bear for bear."

"And mine was a fox."

"Ayah. And it soonds like he took a shine to you."

"Quinn. . . ." She took one of his gnarled paws in both of hers. "Do you . . . do you think there's any . . . well, any danger in talking with him? If he comes back, I mean?"

"Don't really know as how there could be." He turned it over in his mind. "Bear that talked to my friend Ray, he had a lot to say aboot hunters. Ferals seem to have a funny attitude aboot that. It's almost like they don't give it any thought. Like it's a game or something. They have a real odd view of death, too. Like, it's not a worry for 'em, and whenever or however it comes, they just accept it." He smiled at her. "Don't know if that helps. . . ."

"Oh, it does! I haven't been a hundred percent sure that I didn't dream the whole thing. I mean, it's pretty fantastic. . . ."

"What's fantastic?" asked Samantha.

Wendy startled and jerked around to face the younger femme. Quinn looked up and said, "Oh, these delivery systems they have nowadays. Just rememberin' what it was like back when automobiles first came out. It'd be a nine-days wonder to even see one."

Wendy looked back at him, her eyes full of gratitude. He grinned and winked at her.

Samantha's eyes grew round. "You remember when there were no cars?"

"Ayah."

"Personally?"

"Don't know of any other way ta do my rememberin' 'sides personally."

"Wow!"

Wendy stood. "Get all your shopping done, kiddo?"

"Sure did. And it took three baskets. Well, two and a piece of one. Can you help me carry them out to the van?"

"Sure." She turned back to the aged fur. "Thanks, Quinn. I _really_ appreciate it."

"My pleasure." He picked up his paper and found his place as the two vixens walked out.

##

_** noon **_

The more cooking she did, the better Wendy felt about her decision to open a café.

Lunch today served as a prime example. All it had taken was a little advance planning and about forty minutes of prep-time. She had smoked salmon on rye toast points with spicy mustard; a salad with Bibb lettuce, shredded carrot, fresh pears, walnuts, and a raspberry vinaigrette; hot, tomato-based three-bean soup; and a nice chicken frittata. It had been even easier than she'd thought, and her guests absolutely raved, even Sean, who polished off the remaining soup, then scoffed Alice's salad.

The twins had just begun clearing the table when the thrumming of a large diesel engine made itself felt. Sabrina looked over at Wendy with a quizzical expression.

The vixen raised an eyebrow. "That would be the roofers. Should be, anyhow. They were supposed to start Tuesday, but the weather wouldn't let them. Rescheduled for this afternoon."

Sabrina nodded. "Hoo! That's good." She'd helped Wendy in her (mostly vain) attempts to contain the leaks during the unseasonable storm that blew in Monday afternoon. It had become painfully obvious why there was so much water damage in the house. Notwithstanding the great number of pots and pans in the kitchen, they ran woefully short.

Wendy left her apron at the table, headed out the door and up the South Hall, skipped through the Folly, and walked along the southern half of the Front Hall for several steps before catching sight of the truck through the front windows. She stopped dead in her tracks and stared.

An older hook-and-ladder fire truck, painted dark green, sat placidly in her drive, a crew of furs milling around it.

The doorbell rang, shaking her out of her momentary shock, and she hurried to answer it. It opened to reveal … Wendy's breath caught.

He was a coyote. One-ninety and change tall, lean waist, broad shoulders, well-muscled, with just the faintest streak of silver in the tan along his muzzle. He stood there in worn jeans and a soft, blue chambray shirt, the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, gazing at her with the most penetrating, ice-blue eyes she'd ever seen.

He, in turn, simply looked at her for several seconds, his muzzle not quite closed.

Wendy recovered first. "Good . . ." She swallowed quickly. "Good morning."

"Uhh … Hello."

"Won't … won't you come in?"

"Thank you, ma'am." He moved on into the foyer. "Chase. Uh – Ah mean Ah'm Chase Cottrell. Ah'm the co-owner of F&C Roofing. . . . . Are, uh," hesitantly, he put out his paw, "are you, umm …"

She took his paw, not noticing that hers trembled. "Wendy Wylde."

"You are."

"How are you?"

"Ah'm … better." With an effort he regained control of his faculties. "Mah partner, Levi, tole me a little about the job, but he didn't mention how big the place was." He could not take his eyes off her face. "Ah just wanted to, um, let you know that this will take, um, quite a few days longer than he reckoned, Ah'm afraid." And the smile he gave her jellied her knees.

_He's from somewhere out west. I __love__ that accent!_ "Would you like, uh, could I offer you some lunch? Ah, your crew!Of course! You and your crew, um, that is."

"Ah'd like that." He frowned, blinked, and shook his head rapidly. "No, Ah'm sorry, we, um, ate already. We stopped and had lunch afore we left."

Wendy couldn't think of anything to say. They simply stood and looked into each other's eyes. She realized she was still holding his paw, and released it, blushing. He cleared his throat, said, "Well, uh, Ah better get back to the crew," and turned to go. He nearly walked into the edge of the open front door, but caught himself before he got bruised, corrected, and quickly pulled it shut behind him.

Wendy moved up to the door and peered through one of the small panes, watching him walk back to the truck. _He has a nice, long stride._

"Hey, lookit that!"

Wendy's head whipped around when she heard Flossie. Sabrina stood in the Front Hall, the three youngest Foxx kids with her, and they had stopped to take in the scene outside, just as she had done moments earlier.

"Wanna wide da fiahtwuck, Mommy!"

"Alice, that isn't a toy. Those furs need it to work on the roof. You remember how much water came in a few days ago?"

The tiny skunkette nodded.

"Well, those nice folks are going to fix the roof so it doesn't happen again."

"Wanna wide da fiahtwuck."

Sabrina knelt beside her daughter, and turned her around so they could talk face-to-face. "Alice. The answer is 'no'. Do you understand?"

She avoided her mother's eyes. Sabrina took her muzzle in one paw. "You stay away from that truck, young lady. Do – you – understand?"

In barely audible tones, she answered, "Wes, Mommy."

"Stay _out_ of their way. Stay _away_ from the truck. And stay _away_ from whatever side of the house they are working on, because great-big-heavy pieces of rock will be falling off the roof, and you could get squished. Be hard to run around and play if you're only this thick." She held up thumb and forefinger about a centimeter apart.

Alice giggled. "I tould swide unda da doah!"

"I am _serious_, Alice! Promise me right now that you won't go near those furs or the truck."

"Otay, Mommy, I pwomise." She looked back out the window. "Tan watch 'em fwom heah?"

"That would be great. You do that." She looked over at Sean and Endora, and pointed at Alice. "Don't let her out of your sight. I'm just going over there to talk with Wendy." And she went on to the foyer.

Wendy again had her eyes glued to one of the panes. Sabrina asked, "What's so fascinating?" and moved up next to her, finding a pane of her own.

Wendy said, "Look over there in front of the truck. See that coyote?"

"Where, I don't . . . oh." She put both paws up on the door on either side of her face, and squinted to get a better look. "Ooooooooo. … Yum."

"His name is Chase Cottrell. You should hear him talk."

"Was he the one who rang the bell?"

"Ay-yep."

"He the foreman?"

"Co-owner. I talked with his partner, Levi Fisher, when I was setting up this little party. Didn't know it was a partnership."

Two furs, a cat and a rabbit, had stripped to the waist, climbed into the bucket and begun the ascent to the roof. In a few seconds the femme furs in the foyer could hear clumping and scraping overhead. Shortly, a large piece of slate came crashing down, and all three of the kids jumped in alarm. Mr. Cottrell shouted and waved his arms, the bucket came back down, and he went over and talked to them. The cat got out. Then the big coyote climbed in, pulled his own shirt off, and . . .

"Oh – My – God!" Sabrina breathed. Wendy's pulse kicked up a notch.

The bucket went up again, and they watched until it rose out of sight. Then they gave each other the same incredulous look and started to giggle.

Sabrina stroked her muzzle thoughtfully. "This has _**got**_ to be some kind of set-up. Did Mac mention this guy?"

"Only as a vague reference."

"Is he married?"

"I don't know, Mac didn't say. I didn't notice a ring."

"You might want to find out."

"I might, at that."

##

_** Friday 15 July 2016, 10:11am **_

Wendy dialed the fourth number on the list and waited.

"Just Fur You Temps. This is Cheryl. How may I direct your call?"

"I have a bed-and-breakfast opening soon, and I need someone to help me in the kitchen. Maybe do a little light housework as well, dusting and stuff."

"Thank you! I'll put you right through."

Wendy suffered through less than a minute of elevator music before someone picked up. "This is Eric. How may we be of service?"

"I need someone to help me run the kitchen in a bed-and-breakfast, and do some light cleaning."

"Very well, Madam, I'll need some information from you."

Wendy spent the following sixteen minutes giving him what she considered to be an overabundance of background, but it succeeded in getting a fur out for an interview.

_Well, now, that wasn't such a chore._ She looked at the name he had given her: Toni Canadae. Her credentials were decent enough, if a bit sparse. She'd be out Monday afternoon to look the place over, and hopefully give Wendy sufficient reason to hire her.

##

_** Saturday 16 July 2016, 8:43am **_

_**[ Note please, Gentle Reader, that the dialogue in the following passage has been translated from Gaelic. ]**_

"Karl, sir, would you like to do the final check on this winding?"

"Are you satisfied with it?

"Aye, that I am."

"If you're happy, I'm happy. Gift-wrap it and we'll trot it out to the Manor."

"Will do. Won't take me two shakes." Martin had grown used to his boss's free-pawed approach to the responsibility-versus-authority question. If anything went wrong with the motor, it would be Martin who had to fix it, so it well-behooved him to make sure it was in good working order.

He prepared a large box, pre-lined with closed-cell foam pads, and centered the motor inside, then fastened the lid on with strapping tape. As he carried it out the back door to the truck, the phone rang. Karl answered it.

By the time Martin got back inside, Karl had finished his conversation and was selecting a variety of esoteric tools from a rack on one wall. "Martin, that was Red Raynes on the phone. His passive system is clogged again, and he's going bananas."

"Will he _never_ learn to change his filters? You would think with as much as he has invested in that outfit that he'd take better care of it."

"Now don't jump to conclusions. It might be something entirely unrelated. That contraption _is_ a prototype, after all. He's afraid he'll overheat the hydroponics and lose a chunk of his crop the way he did last time. I'm going to have to hop over to his place, so would you mind doing the motor installation solo?"

"Not a bit in the world . . . uhhh . . . does Ms. Wendy, uh, still have, umm . . . company?"

Karl successfully hid his amusement. "I don't know. They were there Wednesday. I suppose they _may_ have left in the meantime, although I got the impression that if a certain young vixen were about to depart, she would make certain that you were aware of it."

Martin's face mirrored his sense of foreboding. "Faith, sir, what should I do?"

"Have you tried talking with her? I understand that to be sort of customary."

"She's . . . rather a lot to deal with. My head goes all fuzzy when she looks at me that way."

"I didn't notice as how that detail seemed to bother _her_ at all."

Martin sighed and rubbed the bridge of his snout.

Karl gave him a reassuring pat on the back. "You'll do fine. Just remember, it's only temporary. They'll soon be leaving for real, and it will likely be a long time before you see her again, if ever." He cocked his head to the side and pursed his lips. "But then, on the other paw, she might just decide to stay here with you. You could do a lot worse you know."

His eyes bugged and his mouth went bone dry. "I-I-I-I-I-I-I-"

"Whoa, boy, calm down! I'm teasing. Ease up."

Martin swallowed, trying to re-lubricate his mouth. "Have mercy, sir! Will you be serious? I'm afraid I'm out of my depth here."

"This _is_ serious, Martin. There is nothing of sorcery in the way of a maid with a male. Just don't let her looks distract you, and try to hold a pleasant conversation. I recall you said she seemed genuinely interested in your explanation of the lifting robot."

"Aye. That she was. She's a sharp one, is that colleen." He gave Karl a piece of a smile. "Too sharp by half, if you ask me."

"Well, then, there's your answer. Keep the topics academic. Stay where _you_ are comfortable, and you'll be less likely to drop the ball."

"Thank you, sir. I'll give it a try." _Maybe I won't even see her._

##


	13. Chapter 6 Fits and Starts Part B

_**Chapter Six: Fits and Starts, Part B**_

##

_** 9:12am **_

Sabrina answered the knock at the door and let Martin in. "Well, hullo! This is a pleasant surprise." She eyed the box in his arms and asked, "Would that be our motor?"

"Aye, Ma'am. Karl asked me t'put it back together." He looked around the foyer and peered down the length of the Main Hall. "Whoosh! This place is blurry enormous!"

"I thought you'd been in the Manor before."

"Jist in the kitchen, that once last week, for lunch." He stared at the lofty space and whistled. "How long does it take t'get from one end o' the house to the other?"

"On the same floor, maybe a little less than a minute, corner-to-corner, if you're not in a hurry. Each floor covers over half an acre. Oops! Hang on." She thought hard for a moment. "I mean not quite a quarter of a hectare." She sighed and gave him a sheepish grin. "I'm still not comfortable with metrics. Not really. I don't 'think' in metric yet. Feet, yards, miles, and acres mean something to me. I still have to think of distances in terms of miles and convert to kilometers."

"Well, I don't have a real good idea of what an acre means, m'silf. We used metrics in Ireland, an' they'd just made 'em official when we got here, so I never had t'use that system. Thanks be to God. Metric is jist s'much easier."

"You're used to it." She pointed toward the hall bearing away left from the foyer. "That way is shorter to get to the laundry. Come on." She entered that half of the Hall and walked north along the front of the house.

##

_** 9:40am **_

Martin had nearly finished the installation when Wendy came by.

"Hey, Martin! Punctual, as always, I see."

"Yes, ma'am. Maister Luscus would have it no other way, ye know."

Wendy knelt to watch for a minute as he finished wrapping the electrical connections. He explained, "Besides re-windin' the rotor and stator, we bead-blasted and re-painted th' motor housin', ground the journals and re-sized 'em with shrink-fittin's, and upgraded all the bearin's to Class Five. It ought t'run for years now."

Wendy's muzzle curled into a bemused smirk. "As you say. I understood about half of what you just told me." She sat cross-legged on the floor next to him, and asked, "Martin, would you mind telling me something else?"

"I guess that'd depend 'pon what it is ye be wantin' t' know."

"When you saw that fox go after Samantha, what made you intervene the way you did?"

He turned to look at her, surprise clearly written across his face. "Have mercy, ma'am! What else could I 'a' _done_?"

She smiled. "I like that answer. But I don't mean, 'Why did you help?' I mean, 'Why did you help _that way_?' You don't strike me as the physical type, for one, and for another, how did you know they would get so violent so quickly?"

He sat up and reached around behind him to retrieve the rear panel, then began screwing it back on while he thought over his reply. "Well, ma'am, t'answer your second point first, it's like this. I saw they were Purebreds th' moment I walked in, so I pretty much knew what their outlook on life would be. There was jist them and me in th' place, besides Ian and Mrs. Tabb, and they got pretty loud a few times, makin' wi' th' crude remarks and jokes. Not aimed at me, ye understand, but it was dead clear what they thought o' hybrids. Then Miss Foxx walks in, and they go all quiet, like. I knew t'was goin' t'be bad." He finished tightening the screws, stood up, and brushed himself off. Then he lent a paw to Wendy to help her stand. "As to gettin' physical, as ye put it, I've been gettin' into scraps against me will most o' me life. Do ye remember back in ought-seven when the New Partisans started bombin' things in Ireland?"

"Yes. Hard to forget. Cold-hearted bunch of fanatics. Anti-Catholic, weren't they?"

"Aye, they were. And far from cowing the Church, as they'd hoped, they only stirred up the radicals on the Catholic side." He sighed. "Ye'd think they'd have learned _something_ from the IRA's woeful record in Northern Ireland. But then intelligence be not th' same as wisdom, an' that's the truth of it."

Wendy raised her eyebrows. "That's pretty profound, Martin."

"One o' me Dad's sayin's. Anyway, lots o' Catholic-pride groups sprang up, and things got hot fer those of us who weren't Catholic."

"Waitaminute! You're family's _not_ Catholic?"

"No, ma'am. Evangelical Free Church of Ireland."

"What's that?"

He chuckled. "A tiny little Protestant denomination. They didn't even get a start in Ireland 'til ought-three. Strictly Biblical. Sensible mix of Arminian and Reform, dependin' on precisely which point o' doctrine ye be speakin' of."

"I'm sorry, you lost me. Arminian? Reform?"

"Do ye not have a church, then?"

"No. Never saw the need. I have as little to do with God as possible, and hope He returns the favor."

"Oh." He scratched the side of his muzzle, perplexed by the bitterness leaking through in her voice. "Well, then, ye probably don't know what th' fuss is all about between th' Protestants and Catholics either. Am I right?"

"Assuredly. It strikes me as the most pointless excuse for violence in the history of furkind."

"Aye. I'd have to agree wi' ye there. But we've always had fanatics, an' I reckon we always will. Howsomever, bein' in th' short minority as we were, I got picked on a good bit as a lad. But when th' New Partisans got goin', friends and relations o' th' poor murdered souls got t'lookin' for somebody t' take out their frustrations on."

"And that would be you and your family?"

"Among others. Two members o' the church got knifed, one fatally so. The pastor's house burned down, then th' church buildin' itsilf."

"Whoa! But your group didn't have anything to do with . . ."

"Mercy, no. But it does no good t' try t' reason wi' folks who've been driven crazy wi' grief. They git t'thinkin' along th' lines of us-an'-them, an' it's all over but th' shoutin'."

". . . . I suppose you're right."

"We hung on as long as we could, but the congregation dwindled down t' jist a handful. Then in ought-nine me Dad lost his job. He was a carpenter, and a good one, but when his company started losin' contracts jist because Dad was on th' crew, his boss had t'let him go."

"Oh, Martin, I'm so sorry!"

"As was I. We didn't want t'leave Ireland, but what choice did we have?"

"I seem to remember that a lot of furs left there around two thousand eight and nine."

"Indeed. Many like us, wi' nowhere to turn. We used th' last of our savin's t' book passage t' th' States. Right before we left, me Dad got this . . . this letter." He paused a moment, staring off into space, sighed, and resumed. "A vile thing, it was. Named him as a local leader of the New Partisans. Told him his days were numbered. An' then we got out."

"Just in time, sounds like."

"I'm afraid it only put it off, though. We got set up here, an' Dad found work. Nice an' steady, too. We were happy. But after a few years, we got another letter. I got th' mail that day. The letter had no return address, and was put to 'Martin O'Musca'. See, that's me Dad's name, too. But for some reason I figured it t'be for me, so I opened it. Had jist one sheet o' paper, wi' jist one sentence: 'Revenge is a dish best served cold.'"

"Oh! Oh, Martin!" She put a paw on his arm.

"I carried it into th' house and asked me Mum about it. She went all white an' trembly, and didn' get any better when Dad come home. But he jist got mad. He said, 'Let 'em come, I'll give 'em what for.' An' we went t'the Sheriff about it, but there wasn't much he could do. No fingerprints, and mailed from Boston." He leaned up against the side of the dryer, looking at the floor. "That was in May."

Wendy shivered. She could sense where this was going.

He met her eyes again, continuing. "On th' tenth o' July, twenty-twelve, me Dad was workin' with a crew renovatin' an old church over north o' Montpelier, an' he fell off his scaffold."

Wendy's paw flew to her throat, her eyes huge.

"Dropped about twenty-five meters. They say he musta lost his balance or missed his footin', but we insisted on an autopsy. See, he hit th' ground feet-first, but there was a spot on his head where th' skull was cracked in. Th' coroner nivver come right out an' said so, but we all know somebody knocked him off."

"That is _horrible!_"

"And that, ma'am, is an understatement. Me Dad was the finest fur who ever drew breath. Me youngest brother was but three when he died. An' I, two months shy o' thirteen. There be two more of us between."

Wendy fought to hold back her tears. She'd had no idea! "Did they ever find out who did it?"

"No. They never really tried. Nothing t'go on, nowhere t'start. An' it would do no good if they did. It wouldn't bring me father back."

Wendy could only shake her head. "You must miss him terribly."

He caught her gaze and held it. She expected to see bitterness, hatred, something. But what she saw, and what puzzled her, was the peace there. "Miz Wylde, I have a fair grasp o' two languages. I've read lots o' poetry in both of 'em. Me Mum likes it, an' I read to her. I've done a goodly bit o' readin' on me own, an' workin' wi' Mr. Luscus has pumped me vocabulary considerably. But I've come to know this one thing for sure: there be no words, in _any_ language, t' tell ye how much I miss me Dad."

Wendy choked and turned away from him, her eyes burning. Martin handed her his kerchief. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for ye t'get all blown-over on my account."

She used the small cloth to dab her tears. "It's not that, Martin." _*sniff*_ "Not your fault." _*sniff*_

"Me eyes tell me otherwise."

"No, really. See, I lost _my_ father when I was eleven, so I know how you feel. But I was an only child."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Didn't mean to dredge up sad memories for ye."

"Thank you." She passed his kerchief back to him. "You certainly seem to have an amazingly understanding attitude about all this."

He shrugged. "I'll see him again. And, thanks be, the Good Lord provides strength t' make it through th' trials that come wi' livin' in this world. It's how me Dad would've done it. An' that's th' long an' th' short o' why I had t'do what I did for Miss Foxx."

"Because . . . because your father would have wanted you to?"

"Because it was the _right_ thing to do. The _righteous_ thing to do."

She regarded him with something akin to awe. "You sure don't talk like any seventeen-year-old I ever met before."

"When I stand before God, I want t'know I've done what I could wi' what I had. 'To whom much is given, much is required', as the Good Book says. An' I have some skill at paw-to-paw combat, courtesy o' Mr. Luscus." He paused, thought it over, and shrugged again. "So help me, ma'am, I could do no other." He turned and began to gather up his tools.

His declaration had given Wendy much to ponder. She waited until he was done, and walked with him to the front door. "Martin?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Do you go to the . . . Freevangelical Church here?"

He had to smile at that. "Evangelical Free Church. No, we don't. There isn't one nearby."

"So, do you go to church at all?"

"Oh, faith, of course! We attend Mercy Chapel."

"Hey, that's where Karl goes!"

"Yes, ma'am. Every Sunday mornin' an' Thursday night, an' once a month we have a special Tuesday night Redemption Service. Mr. Luscus sings wi' the Praise Team."

Wendy was putting two and two together, and not liking the result. "Did you start going there because Karl does, and he's your boss?"

"No, ma'am." He cocked his head over a little, another smile slipping past his lips. "We joined when we got here in ought-nine. Karl joined in the spring o' twenty-thirteen, when he became a Christian."

She frowned in renewed puzzlement. "Wait, wait, wait." She tried to remember dates she'd heard. "You apprenticed to him in twenty-twelve, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So he had the shop here already?"

"He bought it in twenty-ten, as I understand."

"So . . . . . . . so how did he get to be a Christian?"

Martin laughed then. "Each fur comes to God in his own way. Tis a wondrous and private thing. An' his is a compelling tale, ma'am. Perhaps ye should ask him sometime."

"Thanks." She nodded, making a mental note to do just that. "I will."

"Good day to ye, ma'am."

##

_** 10:45am **_

Wendy maneuvered her van in amongst the other vehicles scattered around the rolling lawn before the church, parked, and sat for a moment admiring the view.

_How pretty! This should be on a postcard._

The church's yard nearly qualified as a meadow. Wildflowers (and some not-so-wild) climbed the field-stone fence that ran along the eastern boundary of the property, and an ancient, towering maple stood sentinel over the west side of the church, promising respite from the afternoon sun. The neat frame building bore a skin of immaculate white clapboard, the tall, pyramidal steeple above the front door shingled with new cedar shakes. A small hill, bristling with a variety of hardwoods, served as a backdrop for the scene.

The south-facing main entrance sat at the top of a short flight of stone steps, in front of which numerous furs fussed over half-a-dozen long tables. Wendy could see she would have to hustle if she wanted any space for her wares. She hopped out, went around to the cargo area, and retrieved the first of three large baskets.

She'd decided low-key would be best, given the circumstances. She had prepared three types of baked goods, and divided them into what she considered easy-to-sell quantities. Each basket contained forty individual packets, done up in color-coded plastic wrap. She'd attached a very small card to each twist-tie that read simply, "Compliments of Ash Creek Catering" in flowing script. Thanks to her calligraphic software, each card exhibited minor differences from the others, giving them a paw-drawn look.

Past this point, however, she was essentially out to sea. How to go about approaching these ladies? No one seemed to be in charge here. She picked a fur at random and headed for her.

The slim red squirrel was busy arranging fruit tarts on a large, oval platter, but looked up and smiled at Wendy as she approached the table. She waved, and called, "Mornin'!"

Wendy smiled and managed a small wave back, from beneath her basket. "Good morning. It looks like I found the right place. This _is_ the bake sale, isn't it?"

"Sure is. Here, lemme help you with that." She made a space on the table and Wendy set the basket down. The squirrel looked it over approvingly. "That's right pretty. I like the purple plastic wrap looping the handle thataway." She stuck one paw into a back pocket of her jeans, and used the other to push her thick, dark-red bangs out of her eyes, before extending it to Wendy. "I'm Cinnamon Jones, by the way."

She took the proffered paw. "Wendy Wylde."

The squirrel's brow furrowed as she squinted at Wendy. Her tail began to flick up and down rapidly. "You moved into the old Vulpin place, didn't you?"

Wendy's mouth fell open. "Why . . . yes. How . . . ?"

Cinnamon waved her free paw in dismissal and grinned broadly. "Oh, everybody knows everybody else's business around here. 'Sno secret. You been here nigh three weeks, now. Word gets around. How you likin' it so far?"

Taken aback by the squirrel's artless and familiar style, Wendy took a few seconds to recover. "It's okay, I guess. It's different, that's for sure."

"Yeah? Where you from?" She went back to arranging tarts as they spoke.

"Pennsylvania, not too far from Pittsburgh."

"Ohhh, big city. Yep, this is different, all right. It's real easy to fit in, though. I'm from Kentucky, myself. You'll feel like a native in no time. Y'know, that basket really is cute. Whatcha got in it?"

The squirrel's rapid-fire speech left Wendy a little breathless. "Uh, cookies. Oh! Hey, I've got two more baskets in the van. I'd better get 'em."

"I'm all done here. Need some help?"

"Sure."

They walked back to her vehicle and got the other baskets. Cinnamon looked them over: in shape they were identical to the one on the table, but hers sported a green wrapping while Wendy's was red. She glanced up at Wendy. "These are slick. You got a real artsy streak in you, y'know?"

Wendy grinned sheepishly. "Weeeellll. I've never put anything in a bake sale before, and I wasn't too sure what they ought to look like." She was rapidly warming to this outgoing fur.

They trotted the baskets over to the table and squeezed them in among the rest. "My goodness, there's a lot of stuff here! Do you think you'll sell it all?"

"If we don't, it won't be for lack of tryin'. We've had flyers up for three weeks in a twenty-mile radius 'round the church. I don't think there's anyfur in six counties that doesn't know about it."

"Hey!" Wendy pointed at her. "You said miles! You're the first one I've heard since I got here that . . ."

Cinnamon waved her off. "Yeah, yeah, I know. We're all s'posed to use kilometers and such. Don't start."

Wendy grinned. "I feel the same way sometimes. I grew up with the feet-and-miles, too, and it gets a bit tiring having to convert in my head all the time."

"I think most furs around here feel that way. But y'can't stop progress, as they say. If you want to call it that." She peeked into the baskets. "Hey! Those don't look like cookies."

"It's just the purple basket that has cookies. The green one has mocha pinwheels, and the red one has nut meringues."

Cinnamon's eyes got really wide. "_Nut_ meringues?"

"You've had them before?"

"No. But they sound positively sinful."

"Well, then." Wendy had been hoping for just such an opening. She pulled a plastic bowl out of one basket. "You'll want to try one of the freebies." She took the cover off to reveal three compartments, each containing several small examples of one of the treats she had brought. "These are the meringues, these are the pinwheels, and these are the American crisps."

Cinnamon chose a meringue, popped it into her mouth, and chewed briefly. She slowed down, her eyes closed, her paws clenched, and her face melted into an expression of rapturous bliss. Her tail sank, then stretched straight out behind her, the very tip flickering rapidly.

Wendy's eyes sparkled as she asked the decidedly rhetorical question, "Do you like it?"

Cinnamon chewed a few more times, swallowed, and said, "I'll take however many you brought."

Wendy laughed. "I thought this production was supposed to bring money in from _outside_ the congregation!"

"Can I buy the recipe from you, then?" She still hadn't moved. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Please, that isn't necessary. I'm planning to open a café at Ash Creek, and these will be for sale any time."

"That is _really, really_ good news."

"I'm gonna try my paw at catering, too."

"Oh?" The squirrel opened her eyes then and looked over at her. "You busy tonight?"

Wendy laughed again. This girl was a real card. "I'm not set up yet. Heck, I'm still cleaning the place up, probably will be for weeks to come. Then I've got to get all the permits and licenses and . . ."

"And meanwhile I'm buying every nut meringue in that basket. How much did you want for 'em?"

"I didn't put any prices on them. I figured you would know better than I what the market will bear around here."

"You could get ten bucks apiece for 'em if you marketed to squirrels. I never tasted anything like that in my _life_! What kind of nut did you use?"

"A variety. There's a little marzipan in the meringue, and a sprinkling of sesame seeds, and the filling is a combination of hickory, pecan, macadamia, and sunflower that I sprinkled with clove-honey and dry-roasted."

Wendy had never seen a squirrel drool before. Cinnamon wiped her mouth with a sleeve.

"Lady, I've gotta ask: are the other two things you brought on a par with these?"

"Try 'em and see."

Cinnamon picked up a tiny cookie and ate it. She smiled as she chewed. "Oooo! So _that's_ what . . . y'know I've heard the term 'melt-in-your-mouth' all my life, but I never had a good idea of what it meant 'til just now. That's so cool!" She ran her tongue around her teeth. "Oatmeal?"

"Very good!"

"Next!" She chose a pinwheel. She looked it over carefully. "These are adorable! How'd you do this?"

"Hey, I gotta keep _some_ secrets. I heard there's a county fair next month."

"Well, if you're entering the baked-goods contest, I won't bother." She slid the pastry into her mouth and bit down. Her eyes widened in surprise when the chiffon filling burst its chamber. "Holy cow!" She savored the small bite, then lifted her arms skyward and shouted, "Take me now, Lord, for I have tasted the best this world has to offer!"

Wendy had figured her delicacies would cause something of a stir, but this went well beyond her expectations.

"Faith, Cinnamon, what be ye on about with a' th' ruckus, then?"

Wendy wheeled around to look at the fur who had come up behind her. Quite short, and somewhat plump, the dormouse looked to be getting into her middle years.

"Hey, Siobhan, come taste this! You ain't gonna believe your mouth!"

Wendy examined the new fur closely. With that accent, she _had_ to be Martin's mother. She put out her paw. "Mrs. O'Musca?"

". . . . . Aye." She took Wendy's paw and drilled her with a keen eye. "Have we been intr'duced? Sure, and I think I'd remember sich a coomely thing as yoursilf."

"I'm Wendy Wylde. I know your son, Martin."

"Och! So you be Miz Wylde. Aye, Martin speaks well of ye. Says ye be whippin' that big house inta shape."

"Well, that's my aim. I hope I can get it ready for tourist season."

"An' what would it be that ye lack in gettin' it fit?"

"Well . . . cleaning, mostly, and setting up some of the rooms for guests, and fixing up the dining room for the dinners."

"Mayhaps we can be of some help to ye." She looked over the things Wendy had brought. "Sure, an' they be temptin' morsels. Be these baskets full?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Faith, child, call me by me name, what is Siobhan."

"Chiffon?"

"Aye, tis Gaelic. But harder on the 'f', make it more like a 'v', then."

"Shivvonn?"

She chuckled. "That'll do." She sampled each of the items presented and, while her reaction was less overt than Cinnamon's, it gratified Wendy nonetheless.

"Cinnamon, I'd say we best be layin' these out right in th' middle. What think ye?"

"That'll work. What you reckon they ought to go for?"

Mrs. O'Musca examined the individual packs. Wendy had grouped them in sets of two pinwheels, or three meringues, or five cookies, each. "I'd ask no less than two-fifty for th' cookies, and three dollars for the others.

Wendy did the math. "That would net you three hundred and forty dollars if they all sell. But isn't that kind of a lot? Aren't you afraid folks won't buy them?" She had noticed the prices on most of the other items had been set at a dollar or less.

"Aye, that's a right smart o' money. But in the ferst place, it's goin' to a good cause, an' in th' second, I'll lay ye even odds that your batch sells out before any o' the others." She picked up the bowl of samples and plucked a pinwheel from it. "What these be is quality workmanship. I can see ye have a gift. I be thankin' ye for providin' 'em."

Now Wendy suffered a twinge of guilt. She decided it couldn't hurt to confess. "Actually, ma'am, I did it as much to get some cheap advertising as for any other reason. I've got a little card on each packet."

"So ye have. I seen 'em. An' what be the harm in that? The Good Lord be not minding a bit o' promotion, as long as it not be mean-spirited. That won't change the flavor o' th' money, or the good it'll do." She and Cinnamon moved the baskets to a place of honor on the center table, then she turned back to Wendy. "I'll be sendin' your baskets back to ye by Martin. As I understand it, he gets out your way more than a little."

"Yes, ma'am." She caught herself. "I mean, Siobhan. He does. He or Karl or both have been out there every few days since I got here. But there's no huge rush to get 'em back. I've got lots."

Cinnamon patted her on the back. "Thanks, Wendy. We really do appreciate it. We'll take good care of your stuff for you." She glanced over at the table, where several of the other ladies were examining the baskets. "Hey! I got dibs on the meringues, guys!" And she jumped over that way.

Wendy shook Mrs. O'Musca's paw in farewell. "Okay. Well, I'll get out of your fur. Got some things to buy in town, then more cleaning, then I need to get a big dinner ready for some out-of-town friends that are leaving tomorrow."

"Goodbye, child, and Godspeed."

##

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Author's Notes: Hello! According to my traffic indicator, there are actually a few people reading this. However, it appears that no one is willing to admit to it. I would like to invite you to make an exception and leave a comment. It won't take long, and it will make the author very happy.**

**Thanks!**

**Concolor44**


	14. Chapter 6 Fits and Starts Part C

_**Chapter Six: Fits and Starts - Part C**_

##

_** Sunday 17 July 2016, 5:50am **_

Wendy waved a farewell to the six bleary-eyed furs as the big van rumbled down the drive. The three oldest Foxxes had unwisely stayed up late the previous night, talking and playing games with their hostess. She had tried to compensate this morning by supplying Sabrina with a jumbo travel mug full of extra-strong French Roast to help her along. "And don't be an idiot, dear heart. If you get to the 'gaps and snaps' stage, find a motel and crash. It won't kill you _or_ Chris if you take an extra day, but it just _might_ kill _you_ if you try to get there in one. Listen to an old fox for once."

"Old? Well I like that! You've got all of seventeen months on me, O Aged One."

"Yes, but they were very significant months."

Sabrina had snorted her answer to that remark, and headed her family toward home. Wendy went back to bed for another couple hours of sleep.

##

_** 1:40pm **_

Despite the four induction fans thrumming quietly away under the eaves, and despite the thick insulation that had been added to the underside of the roof, the attic still gave a fair imitation of an oven in the early afternoon.

_Harry said the wiring was in bad shape. He certainly didn't overstate the case._ Wendy had spent the better part of two hours examining the electrical system, and following wire-ways here and there through the house. Many of the wires were frayed, their insulation a dim memory. Some lay in a channel of brown-crisped fiber-fill, or across charred ceiling joists. It truly was a miracle the place hadn't burned down.

She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and scrambled back over to the access door. The wiring would have to be attended to pronto, just as soon as the new roof was finished. Heck, maybe before that. She thought about it as she climbed down the stairs, closing the small portal behind her. _Maybe Chase knows someone who could do it._ She decided that would be an excellent excuse to have another conversation with him. Either he was naturally shy, or he just didn't want to confuse business with his personal life, but in any case he had successfully avoided her since their initial meeting. This, it may be said with some emphasis, did not sit well with our charming vixen.

She padded down to the lower level and out the side to the porte-cochère, where she could see the progress being made on the roof. The contractor had opted to work on it in phases, to lessen the chance of water damage in case of rain. They had completed the Folly yesterday around dusk, and Wendy had not taken the opportunity to review their work until now. She was duly impressed. The conical cap gleamed in the sun, nearly too bright to look at directly. Over the next few seasons the high sheen would fade, gradually achieving that beautiful, soft verdigris of aged copper. She looked forward to that.

Frankly, with the new roof there to offer contrast, the slates looked pretty grubby. She congratulated herself again on her decision, despite what Quinn had said about it. She grinned, remembering his comment: "There ain't but two kinds of metal roofs, Wendy. Them as leak, and them as is fixin' to leak." And while that may have been true thirty or forty years ago, the newer systems developed for resisting the weather worked perfectly. She had done a little research on the subject. But to Quinn, she had just smiled and shrugged and said, "Time will tell."

##

_** Monday 18 July 2016, 9:08am **_

Wendy's van sat patiently waiting in the parking spot immediately in front of the door to the office of F&C Roofing. Much more patiently, be it noted, than its occupant.

She wanted to get an early meeting with Chase, before the rigors of the workday caught him. While the quest for an electrical contractor was primarily a ruse in this case, she knew she needed one and really did want some names from the big coyote. And the operating hours posted on the picture window clearly stated 'M-F 9:00-6:00'. So where the hell were the owners? Damned rural-New England mentality. Where was all that famed yankee punctuality? Didn't they realize they had a business to …

A battered and tarred crew-cab-dually pulled up and parked next to her, and Mr. Fisher, the burly raccoon half of the partnership, emerged. Wendy hopped out at the same time.

The raccoon smiled and waved. "Mornin', Miz Wylde. You're out early."

"As opposed to some others I could mention," she stated, glancing pointedly at the sign.

His grin widened. "Maybe I should change it to 'Most weeks, Monday-through-Friday, Nine-ish until we get fed up and leave'. That'd be more like truth in advertising."

That burst Wendy's bubble of 'grumpy', and she smiled back at him. "Sorry. I guess I have a way to go yet before I'm comfortable with the local timetables." She walked to the door with him and waited while he unlocked it. "Your partner a late riser, too?"

"Nah. He's one of those disgusting morning fursons. Up and jogging at dawn, got his day all planned before my alarm goes off. The first time." He snickered. "Thank goodness for snooze buttons."

They went inside. He vaulted the counter, surprising Wendy. _Mighty spry for someone of his bulk._ "Don't you have a door in the counter?"

"Well, yeah. But it sticks. Easier to just jump." He dropped his satchel on a chair in the rightmost of the three offices along the back wall, then came back to the counter. "What can I do you out of today?"

"Heh-heh! Ahem. I'm, uh, looking for an electrical contractor." She dredged up a small fib. "Something that Mr. Cottrell had said led me to believe he might know a good one." She glanced around. "You know when he might be in?"

"Depends."

She waited for further clarification. ". . . . . . . . . Depends on? . . ."

"Whether he had a busy night or not."

". . . . Busy night?"

The raccoon smirked. "You're not from around here, so you wouldn't know. Chase is probably the best metal-roof fur I've ever met, but he has whatcha might call a full social calendar."

"Oh, really."

"You've met him. Does that surprise you?"

"Hmm. . . . No, I guess not. Not at all." _Damn. Figures._

"I'll let him know you dropped by if you like. He'll be out on your jobsite soon enough anyway."

"No, that's okay. Especially if you know a good electrician yourself."

"Happens I know a couple. What kind you be needin'?"

"The whole house is gonna need re-wiring. The current lines are ancient, and even not knowing a thing about electrical work I can tell they won't pass code."

Mr. Fisher was flipping through his rolodex (_Rolodex? Hasn't he heard of computers?_) while she spoke. He shortly withdrew two dog-eared cards and handed them to Wendy. "Here ya go. Ben Temple has a place just a few blocks down, but good luck finding him there. Has more work than he can say grace over. But he's the best, if you can get him. Tom-Tom Hunter does really good work, too, but he's kinda slow. Methodical, like. Does everything exactly to code. No shortcuts, no substitutions, and sometimes that means waiting a week or two for the right parts to ship in."

Wendy read over the information on the cards, then looked up and smiled at Mr. Fisher. She held out her paw. "Thanks a bunch! This is great."

He shook her paw, but said, "Better hold your praise 'til after you get a quotation on the jobs."

That sobered her up in a hurry. "Why? Are they very expensive?"

"Because of the codes in this state, electrical work is higher than most others. But it can vary a goodly bit, dependin' on the partic'lar job." He tapped the counter as he spoke. "You'll just have to see for yourself."

Wendy was dubious. "Okay. Guess I'll go talk to them now. Thanks, again."

"Welcome."

##

_** 11:30am **_

Wendy threaded her way around the old firetruck, plodded up the front steps, and continued on up to her room, where she flopped out on her bed, staring at the ceiling. She held the pose for quite a few minutes, going over what she had learned that morning.

It just wasn't going to happen. Not for those prices. _Pity I didn't find out about this before having the roofers put on the copper._ Not that it would have made much difference. The lower of the two quotes she'd gotten (and both were just ballpark figures) topped ninety grand. And she simply did not understand how it could possibly cost anywhere near that much. No wonder new housing was so steep here. Some of the prices she'd seen in the Montpelier real estate guides put her more in mind of southern California, or maybe coastal Georgia. And how could Harper Fenton's estimates have been off by such a large margin?

She pulled out her PA and hit his number. His receptionist answered, and informed her that Mr. Fenton would be in court all day, and would she like to leave a message? Wendy did.

_I'll have to try some other avenue. Maybe I can do it myself. It doesn't seem like it would be that hard. _She had a thought._ Maybe I ought to talk my plans over with Karl._ She pulled out her PA and hit his number, growing more sure by the second that he'd probably be full of helpful ideas. He picked up at the second ring, and seemed delighted to talk with her.

She explained her problems, and he listened without interrupting. When she finished, he asked a couple of relevant questions about the power requirements in the house, then offered to get her some books on the subject. "I'd think you ought to be able to handle most of the simpler installations. Always use the lock-out-tag-out procedures outlined in the book. Be sure to turn off the power at the breaker box, and check the circuit you're working with each time, to make sure it's dead."

"Well, duh!"

"No, now don't take that attitude." He grinned to himself. "What's black and shriveled, and hangs from the ceiling?"

"Huh?"

He repeated the question.

"Okay, I'll bite. What?"

"An unsuccessful electrician."

" . . . . . . . . . . . Eeeeewwwwww!"

"Just you keep that in mind when you have your paws in among the wires. You'd be shocked, shocked I say, at the number of competent electricians who get killed every year from not taking the proper precautions. I'd like to go over a few things with you after you read the books, and before you start on the re-wiring. It'd be a real shame to singe off all that beautiful fur."

She grinned. _Got 'im!_ "You really think it's beautiful?"

"I _am_ blessed with better-than-average eyesight, Ms. Wylde. And I seem to remember there being several mirrors in the house, so I must assume you cannot _completely_ misapprehend the reality of your appearance."

"Heh. Thank you, I think. That's got to be the most round-about compliment I ever received."

"Serves you right, fishing for it like that."

"Spoilsport. So. You want me to drop by and pick up the books?"

"No, I have to order them. I'll send them out your way when they arrive."

"I really do appreciate this, Karl!"

"It's no problem." He hesitated briefly. "Out of curiosity, why did you not ask if I would do the work?"

"Well, hey, it's not technically maintenance. Besides, it's gonna take a large chunk of time, and you're busy at the Shop. I didn't feel right about asking you."

"That's very noble of you."

"Noble, schmoble. It's pragmatic."

"An interesting viewpoint. And laudable in any case."

"Uh-huh. Save that fertilizer for the garden. Or are you trying to butter me up for something?"

"Under no circumstances. I speak only the truth."

"Then that would make you unique among male furs."

"Perhaps we can discuss that topic at more length some time. Is there anything else you needed?"

"No, not right now. I know I'm keeping you away from real work, so have fun and I'll be talkin' to you."

"Good bye."

##

_** Tuesday 19 July 2016, 8:13am **_

One of the first of her goals Wendy had achieved in the kitchen was the installation of the smoke alarm system.

Darn good thing, too.

She heard it go off from one the Retiring Rooms and raced down the stairs four at a time, relying more than a little on her tail for balance. The smoke first became evident when she got to the South Hall. It practically boiled out of the kitchen, dark bluish-black and thick. She could hear Toni thrashing around, then the sound of the fire extinguisher. She darted around the corner to a scene from bedlam.

The exhaust fan worked valiantly to clear the air, but it would be a while before it succeeded. A medium-sized stock pot lay on its side in front of the stove. Oil covered the appliance and ran down in a spreading puddle on the floor. Mixed in with the greasy residue on the stove and floor were several eggs. All were broken, but two or three appeared to have exploded, as their contents decorated the backsplash and the hood, both of which had gotten a good scorching. Flame-retardant powder coated everything. And a very bedraggled young spaniel stood in the middle of the kitchen, holding the now-empty fire extinguisher and sobbing.

Wendy had to scream to be heard over the alarm. "Toni! What the hell happened?

"They . . . they blew up!"

"What?"

"The eggs. They blew up."

Wendy walked over to the surveillance control panel to turn off the alarm, then picked her way through the mess and took the extinguisher from the shaking girl. "I want you to tell me exactly what you did."

"Well, I was tryin' to fry the eggs like you told me, and . . ."

"Wait. Explain. Fry the eggs?"

"Well, yeah. You _told_ me to fry the eggs."

Wendy surveyed the culinary massacre. She set the extinguisher on the counter and turned to face the young canine. ". . . . . . . You _deep-fried_ them?"

"Uh, . . . sure."

Toni's perception of the ambient temperature in the room dropped several degrees.

Wendy stared her down. "Let me make _very_ sure I have this right. You got the oil hot, then dropped the eggs in?"

The spaniel nodded assent. "Only it was shortening, not oil."

"_Shortening?_" Was there no limit to this kid's insanity? "How much did you . . ." She held a paw up when the girl started to speak. "Never mind. So then they cracked and a couple of them exploded?"

A more vigorous nod. "It was the weirdest thing I ever . . ."

"What did you do when they popped?"

"Uh, I, uh, tried to pick up the pot to move it off the gas, but another egg blew and I, uh, dropped it."

Wendy stared at her while shaking her head slowly side to side. "You told me you had experience as a cook. You told me you knew your way around a stove. And you have the gall to stand there and pretend you know _anything_ after you _bombed_ my kitchen?" She pointed toward the Rear Hall. "Get out of here."

"I'm sorry! I'll clean it up! I'm good at cleaning!"

Wendy's arm never wavered. "Out. Now."

"But I want to . . ."

"_**SHUT UP!**_ If you aren't off my property in three minutes I'll have you arrested for trespassing! Now, GO!"

She bolted.

For the better part of those three minutes, Wendy just stared at the carnage despondently, then sighed heavily. "Looks like the rest of _this_ day got shot to hell." She went over to the broom closet and pulled out her brand new WetDryVac. Looking it over, she commented, "Baby, you are gonna get some more break-in today." She plugged it in and set to work on the powder covering the counters.

##

_** 11:32am **_

_Ring-ring._

_Ring-ring._

_Ri_ – "The Fixit Shop, Karl speaking."

"Karl. Hello. This is Wendy Wylde."

He sat up a little straighter. That brittle tone in her voice did nothing to put him at ease. "Well, good morning. What can I do for you?"

"How about just shoot me."

His pause for furious thought actually lasted less than a second. "I'm afraid that isn't listed among the services we offer. Nor do I make referrals in such cases. What if I fix the root-cause problem instead?"

She _almost_ chuckled. "Spoken like a true engineer. And who knows? Maybe you can. You've been just _full_ of surprises lately."

He felt much better after that response. "Agreed. And how may I surprise you today?"

"Okay, okay, I give up! I'll save my bad mood for later. Let it age a bit." Her grin was clearly audible over the phone. "We had a little accident out here this morning and I've struck a rubber wall as far as cleaning it up is concerned."

"What kind of accident?"

"Grease fire in the kitchen. The smoke got all over everything, walls, ceiling, out in the halls. And barring the use of a toothbrush and a scaffold, I don't have a clue as to how I'm supposed to remove it."

"Oh-ho! We'll just see about that. You sit tight, the cavalry is on the way."

"Really? You know, I mainly just called you out of frustration, not because I thought you could actually help. If you've got a solution, by gosh, you deserve a medal!"

"Our lives are but to serve, m'lady."

"Ackk! Please! I already said I give up! Just come on out."

"Be there shortly. Say, around twelve-fifteen?"

"Great. See you then."

She put the PA back in its holster and leaned against the wall by one of the windows in the Rear Hall. _And I didn't think __anything__ could cheer me up._ Looking at the gray-black marks on the ceiling, she fervently hoped the big wolverine had a workable solution.

##

_** 12:08pm **_

Wendy let Karl in when he knocked at the kitchen door. She eyed the device in his paw and remarked, "You show up with the oddest pieces of equipment."

"Form follows function, as they say. Usually." He gazed around the kitchen, surveying the damage. "My, my, my."

". . . Yeah."

Giving her a sidelong glance, he asked, "How about if I start in the Rear Hall? You mentioned smoke damage there."

"Sure. Whatever. That doodad all you gonna need?"

He held the cleaner out toward her. "This is the whole ball o' wax here."

"Must be awfully efficient."

He affected an old, cracked voice. "The better to clean you with, my dear."

That reference elicited a rolling of the eyes from his alopecine client. "And since when are you a wolf? Much less one gone feral?"

Tucking the gadget under one arm, he assumed a reverent stance, eyes closed, his paws held in front of his chest with the fingertips touching, and spoke in ancient Oriental tones. "You must learn not to be so presumptuous. Watch and learn. Pay attention to the master and gain wisdom. Open your consciousness to new horizons. See what marvels . . ." Her gagging sounds forced him to cut short his didactic rebuke.

"Enough, already." She pointed at the apparatus. "So what is that thing? It looks like a Dust Buster on steroids, only you fitted it with antennae."

"It's an ultrasonic vacuum. It loosens the dirt with sound waves and sucks it off at the same time." He resumed his 'Learned Master' pose. "As I said, youngling, watch and learn."

He could tell she was fighting a smile. "You call me 'Grasshopper' and you die, sucker."

He grinned at that. "Never entered my mind." He made sure she could see that his fingers were crossed.

She laughed and threw up her paws in resignation. "Stop! Please! How am I supposed to maintain a good grump with you being so damned cute? Is this a standard part of the service, or are you free-lancing?"

"It's not _free_. It just isn't costing _you_ anything. Unless you count the heavy toll of having to put up with my so-called sense of humor."

Wendy contracted a hopeless case of giggles, her tail wagging and twitching. This guy was too much. She slid down the wall and crossed her legs under her. "Okay." _Hee-hee_. "Go for it." _Heh_. "Do your stuff. I'll watch."

And he did. The tool had an extendable handle that allowed him to reach the ceiling easily. He placed the large intake nozzle against the blackened surface, and thumbed a switch. Instantly, Wendy's eyes watered as the ultrasonic whine assailed her sensitive ears. She put her paws over them, but it helped hardly at all.

"Yeowch! Hey! Karl!"

He turned off the unit. "Sorry about that. It needs tuning, although being slightly out of perfect phase doesn't affect its performance. I can do that now, if you like, or come back later. It'll probably take between forty-five and sixty minutes to do it here."

"No, no, you're here already. Go ahead and re-calibrate, or whatever. I'll go work in the Fairy-Tale Suite." She got up and dusted off her overalls. "Let me know when you're ready. I _would_ like to see it work."

"You got it." And he watched as she walked away down the hall.

_Fairy-Tale Suite?_

##

_** 1:07pm **_

Karl followed his ears to the north-western-most suite on the second floor. He stuck his head in the door and said, "Knock-knock," then did a double-take at the room.

It had been reborn as a Medieval wayside tavern, complete with beamed ceiling, wattle-and-daub walls, and straw on the floor. The diamond-shaped panes in the large French doors on the left wall lent it something of an upscale air.

Past the door, in front of a large fireplace, rustic wooden chairs in sets of four surrounded two low, square tables of similar manufacture. A rough, wooden, two-stick candelabrum graced one table, while the other sported a heavy glass oil lamp. A simple sideboard held several hardwood trenchers and an assortment of crude knives in various sizes and lengths. To the left, Wendy had erected a bar (!) along the short wall opposite the door, pewter mugs lined up on the narrow counter behind it, a keg of ale standing guard at the far end. A large, wooden screen with the crude outline of an adult fur chalked on it leaned against the wall opposite the bar, three throwing knives stuck in the torso area. A small shield above the door, proclaiming the place to be the "Crown and Kettle" completed the picture.

Karl stood dumbstruck for a few moments before Wendy entered from the short hall. She caught sight of his face and snickered.

"Whatcha think?"

"Did you do all this?"

"Yep."

"By yourself?"

"Yes." She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"Really?"

"Y'know, I think I might be insulted. Either that or flattered."

Karl recovered his aplomb. "You should choose the latter. This is very impressive." He walked over and examined the bar. "Where did you find it?"

"Would you believe, most of this stuff came from upstairs? There are rooms and rooms just packed with the weirdest assortment of knick-knacks. Oddball things Uncle Julian must've found in his travels, I think."

Karl nodded. "That would likely be a good guess. And it would be just like him, too."

Wendy gestured down the short hall. "Want to see the Retiring Room?"

He gave her half a smile as he followed her down the short hall and across the Servants' Walk. The door to the room stood open, and they stepped in.

Karl glanced around. "This reminds me of something."

"It _should_ put you in mind of every maiden-locked-in-a-tower story you ever heard."

"That it does."

Wendy had made generous use of low-density epoxy-foam stucco to re-create the walls as rough stone blocks. Tapestries and sheer curtains featured prominently, and the massive four-poster bed to the left was draped with more of the gauzy material. A highly ornate dressing table stood against the right wall, and an even more decorated oval mirror hung above it. The large armoire just to their right rounded out the room's contents.

Karl put his paws on his hips and smiled. "This is a cunning little arrangement. Very charming."

"Glad you like it." She huffed a small sigh. "I hope the guests think so, too."

"Do you have a booking yet?"

"Oh, good grief, no! I'm not anywhere near ready. I still have to find someone to help in the kitchen." She grinned lopsidedly. "Someone, that is, who won't demolish it."

"Speaking of which, I got the unit tuned. You said you wanted to watch it work."

"Right! I was just pinning up the sheers before basting them in place, but that can wait. Let's go."

She followed him back to the Rear Hall, where she noticed a very bright patch in the middle of the smoke-blackened ceiling. "Cooool! Do it again!"

Karl hefted the ultrasonic vacuum and ran it slowly over another section, leaving behind pristinely white paint. "It's a good thing that paint isn't peeling, or it would come off, too."

Wendy licked her teeth. She could _almost_ hear the ultrasonic trace, and it made her mouth itch for some reason. She wiggled her muzzle, then asked, "Mind if I have a go?"

"By all means. Here."

Wendy took the device and came close to dropping it. It was a lot heavier than it looked. "Damn, son, what'd you make this thing out of, depleted uranium?" She maneuvered it into position, but found herself unable to use it effectively. "Here. Take it."

Karl took it. "Sorry about that. I tend to do the same thing with control panels. I mount them at a comfortable height for me, but then no one else can use them easily." He resumed his slow sweep of the ceiling. Wendy contented herself with just watching. After a few minutes the Rear Hall was completely de-smoked, and probably cleaner than it had been in many years.

"Well you've got _my_ vote for miracle-worker of the year. I wouldn't have believed it, had I not seen it."

"I'll finish up the kitchen and the South Hall. Shouldn't take too long. Is there anything else?"

She frowned in thought. "Yyyyyes. That _non-compos mentis_ used shortening to deep-fry the eggs, and when she dropped the pot, the liquid stuff ran all over the stove. Most of the gas burners are clogged. Got any suggestions?"

He put the cleaner down. "Let me have a look-see."

They went over to the stove, and Karl carefully freed one of the burner units from its mount, examining it closely. "Doesn't look too bad." He pulled a stylus out of one of his many pockets and tried to scratch the burner's underside, grinning when he couldn't. "Excellent! As I said, Julian did things with style."

"What? Something special about the stove?"

"Do you have any caustic drain cleaners?"

"Uhhh . . . it isn't the sink that got clogged up."

"I know. Do you have any?"

"I do."

"Good. This burner's made of a refractory material called tungsten carbide. I suspected as much when I picked it up. It's way too heavy to be just plain steel."

"And that's good?"

"You bet! Just whip up a batch of equal parts water and drain cleaner, and drop these puppies in. In a few hours, they'll be so clean their own mother won't know them. They'll positively beam with pride."

Wendy put her arms akimbo and tapped a foot, sending him a look of reproof. "You know you shouldn't attribute live, fur-like traits to kitchen appliances, don't you?"

Karl's expression immediately clouded in puzzlement. "Why not?"

She dimpled. "Cause they hate it."

His muzzle dropped open, then he made an elaborate show of wincing. "Walked straight into that one, didn't I?"

Wendy clapped her paws and bounced. "I just _love_ a good straight line! Thanks!"

He waved her off. "Yeah, yeah. Any time." He laid the burner on the counter and gave her a look that mixed equal parts humor and disgust. "I'll have to be especially careful around you. That's the second time you've nailed me that way."

"Ain't it great?"

He just rolled his eyes in response and picked up the ultrasound unit. "I'll be in the South Hall."

Wendy practically hooted to herself as she made her way back upstairs.

##


	15. Chapter 6 Fits and Starts Part D

_**Chapter 6: Fits and Starts - Part D**_

##

_** Thursday 21 July 2016, 10:40am **_

Wendy's ears pricked up. She closed her brand-new copy of The Contractor's Handbook of Electrical Codes and laid it on the counter. _Was that the door to the porte-cochère?_ She listened harder.

"Hello? Anybody home?"

Wendy thought she'd heard that voice before, and called, "Back here in the kitchen."

Footfalls padded up the South Hall toward the kitchen, and presently Elly Tabb walked in. She looked around the huge room, taking in the gleaming appliances, the utensils, the intricate pattern on the ceramic tile floor, the neat granite countertops. "My, oh, my, but this is somethin'. Ain't never seen its equal." She looked over at Wendy with a small, guilty grin. "I never been out to the Mansion before, just seen it from the road once in a while. Always wondered what she'd look like inside."

Wendy considered the cat briefly, then asked, "Would you like some tea? I was just about to make myself some."

"Oh, no, I didn't have that long to stay. Just wanted to know if it'd be possible to get me some of them crisp things."

Wendy's blank look urged her to clarify. "Them cookies you done baked for the church sale."

The light dawned. "Oh! You mean the American crisps. You want to buy some?"

"Yes'm."

"I'm sorry, I don't have any made. They don't take long, though. If you like, I can whip up a batch this afternoon."

"No, wait, you don't understand. I didn't explain it right. See, what I want to do is sell 'em at the diner, 'long with the other pastries and such."

"Oh." That nonplussed the vixen. "How many did you want?"

"I figure I can move around a hundred a day. Maybe a hundred-an-a-half."

Wendy goggled at her. "Are you serious?"

"Serious as a drought. Them things took off like you wouldn't b'lieve. Whole dang county's goin' on about 'em." Her expression spoke of her hope in this endeavor. "I figured I'd get a leg up on the competition, see if I couldn't be the first in line. But I couldn't find your phone number nowhere, so I come on out myself."

"Well . . . . . well, uhh, sure, yeah, I guess . . . I suppose that won't be a problem." She shook her head as if to clear it. "A hundred a _day_?"

The cat held up a cautioning finger. "Just to start."

A hundred a day to start. Wendy looked at her oven capacity: one big one beneath the range, two medium-sized ovens mounted in the north wall in an over-and-under arrangement, and a large convection oven below the warming board on the east wall. _The recipe makes six dozen, so two recipes, and if I use the tandem oven I can cook four sheets at once . . . that would be about forty minutes a day of cooking time._ "Okay. I shouldn't have any trouble with that. Are you sure you can move that many?"

Elly pursed her lips and nodded. "Pretty sure."

"When do you want to start?"

"How about tomorrow? I can pick 'em up this evenin' and have 'em ready and waitin' for the coffee crowd first thing."

"Suits me. What were you thinking of charging for them?"

"Well, you had 'em in packs of five that went for two-fifty, which would put 'em at fifty-cent apiece. I reckon I can get at least that for 'em. Are they expensive to make?"

"Not particularly. Fifty cents per cookie at the counter seems like a fair price." She cocked her head over and asked, "What would you consider a fair wholesale price?"

"That'd be up to you, ma'am."

Wendy tallied up the ingredient list and produced a number. "How's thirty-two cents each grab you?"

The cat smiled widely. "Like velcro, ma'am."

"Great! So a hundred cookies will run you thirty-two dollars, and you'll clear eighteen off them."

"To start."

"Yeah. To start." Wendy figured she'd be making around twenty dollars per hundred herself. That came to thirty dollars an hour, not a bad rate, considering the minimal level of effort involved. This situation had definite possibilities.

"Can I come back around seven to get 'em?"

"That works for me. Thanks for your interest."

Elly chuckled. "I'm afraid the interest is all in them cookies of yours. You ain't never seen a basket clear out so fast in your life."

"Really. That's gratifying. I'm glad your church sale was a success."

"Oh, I don't actually attend there. Some of my friends do, so I turn up at a lot of their goings-on."

"Ah. Well, anyway, it's good to know so many furs enjoyed them."

"You should've stayed to watch."

"Maybe I'll stick around at the next one."

Elly moved toward the door. "I don't mean to rush off or nothin', but I got to get back to the diner pronto. Ian's holdin' down the fort for me."

"Okay. Thanks again for the order." _Now I'll have to get busy and draw up some invoices._

The front doorbell rang, startling both furs.

"Who in the world could that be?" Wendy wondered.

"I hope it ain't Michael over to New Haven."

"Who's Michael?"

"Michael Stripedog. The competition."

Wendy snorted softly. "I doubt that."

Elly followed her down the Main Hall to the front door, ogling the immensity of the place with every step. Wendy looked through the viewport at the small female canine on the other side, then opened the door. "Good morning."

"Morning! You're Wendy Wylde, aren't you?"

"That's me."

Elly peered around Wendy and laughed, then came forward and took her paw. "Sue Ellen, what on earth are you doing out here?"

"Hey, Elly. Might ask you the same?"

"Came to see about some cookies for the diner."

"Well, you know Winston's birthday is comin' up? And I thought a party'd be just the thing? So . . ."

"And you want Miz Wendy to do the food?"

"On the button!"

Wendy broke in at this point. "Whoa, ladies, please! Do you mind if we start over?"

Elly turned back to Wendy. "Miz Wylde, I'd like you to meet Sue Ellen Sparks. She's a friend of mine who _does_ go to the Chapel."

The two furs shook paws. "Pleased to meet you. What was that about a party?"

"Oh, yes! My husband, Winston, see, he's the Fire Marshall for Addison County? And he's comin' up on the big four-oh? And I thought we ought to give him a party? And Cinnamon mentioned as how you was thinkin' of doin' some catering? So I figured to pop over and ask you?" The lilt of her voice stuck a question mark on the end of every sentence she uttered. It was beginning to get irritating.

"I'm sorry, but I'm not quite set up for catering at present. In another ten or fifteen days, perhaps . . ."

"Oh, that's fine! Just fine! Winston won't be forty until the eleventh of August, anyway? Could I book you that far in advance?"

"Uh . . ."

"Please say yes!"

". . . What _kind_ of party are we talking about?"

"Well, we'd have it at the volunteer firehouse? All the fire-fighters and their families? Maybe around a hundred furs, half of 'em kids?"

_Eeep! Never rains but it pours!_

Wendy held up a paw. "So . . . are you looking for a buffet or a sit-down dinner? Is a big cake involved? Will alcohol be served? Have you . . ."

"Oh, my! I haven't thought it out that far? I just got the idea last night, talking with Cinnamon? Could we work out the details later?"

Wendy thought deeply for a minute. "Tell you what. Let's say, tentatively, that I'll do the food for your shindig. . . ."

"Oh, wonderful! Thank you so much!"

Wendy stopped her again. "We need to hammer out the specifics this weekend. I want to have enough time to get the right ingredients, if necessary, and settle on a price." She recalled with distaste her recent experience with the electrical contractors. "You might not like my first quote."

"Oh, that won't be any problem, I'm sure?"

"That remains to be seen. Tell you what: you go home and decide what you want to serve, how fancy or not-fancy it should be, all that sort of thing, and let's meet again Saturday morning. Say, nine o'clock? I'll have some standard package deals worked up by then and you can mix-and-match."

"Oh, I'll be right here, you bet! We'll get it all settled?"

"Right." Wendy moved purposefully in the direction of the door.

The other furs took the hint and left.

Wendy leaned her back against the closed door, her tail thrashing the mat for all it was worth. This state of affairs certainly fell under the heading of 'Unexpected'. And how. _I guess word-of-mouth is the currency of choice in these parts, where advertising is concerned._

Mulling over the tasks that lay before her between now and Saturday, she made her way slowly back to the kitchen to review her inventory.

##

_** Saturday 23 July 2016, 10:10am **_

Wendy sagged against the doorframe as she watched the femme fur drive off. _Clueless. That's the word. Totally and unabashedly clueless. Sue Ellen Sparks shouldn't be allowed out of the house without her keeper. A full hour of that woman's chatter would sap anyone's strength. _

Nevertheless, they had managed to pound out enough of the details for Wendy to generate a fairly accurate quote, and her first customer hadn't turned a lash at the price. She just smiled and signed the form.

The whole thing was shaping up to be a rather simple, straightforward affair. Standard picnic-type eats with a big, chocolate sheet-cake. No alcohol, but plenty of punch.

Wendy found herself looking forward to it.

She made her way back to her computer in the small office she'd set up in a storeroom near the kitchen, and called up the various forms she'd designed to help with the catering business, crafting a few slight changes in light of the meeting just ended.

That accomplished, she riffled through a short stack of paper on the desk and came up with one of the flyers announcing the opening of Ash Creek Café. She'd thought to post them in the various public forums around the county, but lately had decided against that tack. She'd be better served, she thought, to just leak the information to a few of the right ears and let the grapevine do the rest.

But, first things first: time, tide, and the electrical wiring would wait for no fur. She'd spent a large portion of the last two days absorbing as much as she could about how to wire a house. The result of her reading was that she stuck by her initial impression. It _did_ seem simple, and there was _no way_ it could cost more than a tenth of what she'd been quoted. Karl had loaned her a wire-puller, stripping pliers, multi-meter, and whatnot, so all she'd really needed to buy was the new breaker-boxes, the wire itself and the various outlets. Her plan was to install the new main box first, then re-wire the place in sections, starting with the kitchen.

She trotted upstairs to change into the rough work clothes the job required.

##

_** 9:43pm **_

Murphy had definitely scheduled some weekend overtime.

The new breaker-box was a heck of a lot bigger than the old one, and rather than saw out a section of wall joists, she decided to do a surface-mount. But that meant she had to enclose the box, and she didn't have the right woodworking tools, which necessitated a trip to the hardware store in Bristol where she endured half an hour of mind-numbing tech talk from the 'tool expert'. The upshot being that she left the store with a circular saw, a reciprocating saw, a precision compound-mitre saw, and a considerably lighter debit card.

The tool-fur had been on-target about one thing, though. Having the right tools ready to paw made the boxing-in job a snap.

Pity she hadn't planned where to put the holes for the wires. But the second box went together just as easily.

Working by the light of a propane lantern, she had wrestled with one circuit after another, following them down and running the new wire in place. It was frustrating, exhausting, tedious, dirty work, and she came to loathe it rather quickly. She thought perhaps the high quotations had resulted from the inconvenience factor more than anything else.

But at the end of the day most of the kitchen was done. She sat on an overturned twenty-liter bucket (her clothes were too filthy to sit on anything else) and munched a hero sandwich with reflective enjoyment.

_I can do this. I don't much like it, but I can do it._

She planned to run a trunk line up to the attic and establish a secondary breaker-box there, then run all the lines to the second floor down through the ceiling, carving a slot in the walls for the conduit and re-plastering it afterward. Surface-mount conduit would do for the third floor, since none of the guests would be going up there anyway.

And the fact that she was saving herself almost ninety thousand dollars was considerable motivation. She slept very well, indeed, that night.

##

_** Wednesday 27 July 2016, 2:35pm **_

For the eighth time since lunch, Wendy removed her headband (a thick terrycloth strip torn from a towel), wrung it out, tied it back, and took a long pull from the insulated flask of ice-water at her side. Though the temperature topped forty degrees Celcius in the attic, she had determined in advance that, come hell or high water, she would complete the wiring to the Fairy Tale Suite today. At least, with no one else around, she could achieve a measure of comfort by working in nothing but her fur.

So it was with no small amount of irritation that she picked her way back across the joists to answer her PA when it rang.

"Hello?"

"May I speak with Ms. Wylde, please?"

"Speaking." She eased half-way down the narrow staircase into the relative cool of the third-floor storage room as she talked, allowing the fan-draft to wick the sweat from her fur.

"Oh, good! I was wondering how far in advance I need to make reservations. Is a week enough notice?"

Wendy's mind shifted gears. "Are you referring to the Café or the Inn?"

"The Café."

"Ah." She hadn't really expected such a call any time soon, and her mind raced frantically for a couple of seconds. "Well . . . usually it would depend upon what exactly you want to eat. But barring anything really strange, a week should suffice. Do you have a menu in mind?"

"Oh, yes! See, several years ago . . ."

"Excuse me a moment, please. With whom am I speaking?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. My name is Janice Rounrock. My husband and I live up Highway 7, about halfway to Vergennes. My son and his family attend that little church down that way, and they gave us some of those _scrumptious_ pinwheel things. He told us about the restaurant you're opening in that old mansion. I've admired it for years, and I can't wait to see what it looks like inside."

_Sounds like Uncle Julian had quite a fan club._ "Okay. That's fine. Now, what day did you want to come over?"

"Friday week, the fifth of August."

"And your menu?"

"Well, like I was saying, we went to Europe on our vacation some years back, and found this absolutely wonderful little seafood place in the old Spanish section of Antwerp. They served skate."

"Skate? The ray-fish?"

"Yes! It was really good! It came with a blood pudding that had been steamed in apple juice, and then we went down the street to a Belgian Waffle place for dessert. I was hoping you could re-create that."

She ran through the logistics for a few seconds, then responded, "Shouldn't be a problem. I'll have to get the skate from Boston, and I doubt I'll be able to find any that isn't frozen, but I'll let you know. What's your number?"

They exchanged several more volleys of information (which she recorded on her PA) and said their farewells.

Wendy was feeling very smug as she climbed back to the attic. _Word-of-mouth: the only way to fly._

##

_** Thursday 28 July 2016, 8:12am **_

Wendy checked her pocket-watch and peeked out the front windows, smiling to herself when a scarred and dented Toyota pulled into the drive. That would be her interviewee. And right on time, as well. One mark in her favor.

The old Prius parked directly in front of the house. Wendy opened the main door and stepped out onto the porch to wait.

The white mink who got out looked up at the huge house for a few seconds, apparently absorbing the atmosphere of the place, before zeroing in on Wendy. She smiled and waved, then came around the car and hopped up the stairs.

Wendy tried to keep herself from staring. _She's cute!_ The girl wore khaki culottes and a loose, sleeveless blouse of green gingham, her long, white headfur pulled away from her face with a bandana and allowed to hang free down her back. The dark, dark, dark brown eyes matched her brows and whiskers. By no means what one would call 'top-heavy', her figure would be better described as athletic, an impression reinforced by the tight definition of muscle under the fur of her arms. She strode up onto the porch, extending her paw.

"Hello! I'm Ellen Vison."

Wendy shook her paw, pleased with the firm grip. "Wendy Wylde." She noted with some surprise that Ellen topped her by a good fifteen centimeters. "Come on in. We'll get acquainted, then I'll show you around."

Ellen followed respectfully as they made their way down the length of the Main Hall. Wendy ducked through a small door under the southern set of staircases, then turned immediately left into her office, indicating to Ellen the stuffed armchair beside the desk. Both femme furs sat.

"So," said Wendy with a toothy smile, "the interview question known and dreaded by all: Tell me about yourself."

Ellen chuckled. "I'm glad to see you have a sense of humor." She settled back into the chair and crossed her legs. "As Cinnamon has probably told you, I was born and raised in Vergennes. . ."

"Actually, Cinnamon didn't tell me much of anything. Just that you were looking for work and had something on the ball."

"Oh. Okay, then, you get the dollar tour of my life, rather than the nickel tour."

Wendy snorted half a laugh. "Pray do continue."

"I'm local talent. My two younger brothers still live at home, but Jason will probably be starting college in a month or so, assuming he bothers to pick one. Several different institutions of higher learning are currently clamoring for his attention, but he'd frankly rather just write. He's eighteen, my other brother, Charles, is fourteen, and I'm twenty-two. I did four terms at MIT before I figured out that being an engineer was my Dad's dream, not mine, so I dropped out to see if I could figure out what I _did_ want to do." She grinned wryly. "Dean's List or no Dean's List, differential equations just reminded me too much of an old trunk full of sawdust."

"Good girl. Wish I'd made the same choice back when."

"Yeah, well, turns out the pay isn't very good. So then I took a trip around Europe to see what they had to offer, and wasn't too impressed. You think taxes are bad here? I _still_ can't figure out why anyone even bothers to hold a job in France. You can't keep what you make. Anyhow, I piddled my way around most of the countries over there, saw what there was to see, and barring a novel concept or two, _didn't_ see anything I wanted to make a permanent part of my life. So I came back home, empty-pawed, and have been trying to get in touch with something real ever since."

Wendy stared at her, nonplussed. "Did Cinnamon tell you what this job entails?"

"She said you needed kitchen help, and some light cleaning done."

"And you're up for that? After all the challenge and variety you've had?"

"Sure! See, when I did France I spent a lot of time in Lyon. That's where they train most of their better chefs. I worked in the kitchens there, had some fun and picked up a trick or two, so I figured this might be a good match."

Wendy relaxed noticeably. "Ah! Why didn't you mention that off the bat?"

"Hey, you're the chef, I'm just the grunt, at least to begin with."

Wendy leaned the chair back on its springs, resting her chin on a fist. "So you enjoyed your stint as a kitchen wench in France?"

"More or less. The work itself was fun. But that's a mighty arrogant bunch over there. Gets tiresome after a while."

"They give you a hard time about the language?"

"_Non. Je parle Français. C'est bon._"

"Oh, really?"

"_Oue_."

_Hmmm. This one is full of surprises._ "Do you speak any other languages?"

"A little Spanish and German, enough to get by in the metropolitan areas."

_Verrrrry interesting._ "Okay. That might come in useful down the road."

"Yeah, if you have anyfur come over from Quebec." She looked at Wendy's desk. "You don't take notes for these interviews?"

"What for? I get my best impressions just doing what we're doing. Besides, it's not like furs are beating down the door for this job."

"Zat right? I'm the first, then?"

"No, you'd be number three. The first one totaled my kitchen in her first hour on the job by deep-frying raw eggs." Ellen's eyes got big and she sputtered around a small laugh. "The second one broke three plates, a nice chafing dish, and a food processor, and all he was trying to do was mix up some tuna salad." She rolled her eyes. "If those two got any more stupid, you'd have to set them in the sun and water them twice a week."

Ellen slapped her knees and laughed out loud. "Oh! Oh! That's good! Hey, I've got one: 'This guy is depriving a village somewhere of an idiot.'"

"Heh-heh! I like that. How about this: 'If you stand close enough to him, you can hear the ocean.'"

The mink guffawed. They spent the next little while trading creative insults, the result being that Ellen was reduced to giggling and chuckling constantly. Wendy liked her laugh. "Hey, wait, wait." The younger fur paused to catch her breath, giggled a couple of times, and said, "If what you . . ." then started laughing again.

Wendy grinned. "Come on, Ellen, you can do it."

The mink got herself under control, held up a paw, paused for several seconds to collect her thoughts, and said, "If what you don't know can't hurt you, she's practically invulnerable."

Wendy lost it, and they both spent the better part of a minute laughing the after-effects out of their systems.

When they'd calmed down (which happened in stages, since every time they stopped and looked at each other, they'd both start giggling again) Wendy asked, "You still single?"

"Ayah." She got an introspective look for a moment, then continued, "At the present time. I've dated around some, and I've got a couple of semi-steady . . . significant others." She looked up at Wendy. "Does that have any bearing on the job?"

"Nah. Just satisfying my curiosity."

"Good." She, in turn, looked Wendy over and asked, "Do you work out? I mean, like, regularly?"

"That I do. I've been into kick-boxing and karate for several years, and I practice one or the other just about every day. I've got a room set up for that on the third floor."

"Karate? Really? Cool! I'm studying Ken Po. I should get my brown belt in another month or so."

Wendy's eyes lit up. "That's great! I'm a brown belt myself. Maybe we could spar, you think?"

"Sounds like a plan." She grinned. "Does that mean I get the job?"

"Well, twice burned, thrice shy, as the saying ought to go. I'd like to see if you can actually cook anything before we get really definite."

She shrugged. "Suits me. Let's do it."

They got up and went to the kitchen.

. . .

. . .

. . .

**End of Chapter Six**


	16. Chapter 7 Relations Part A

**Author's Notes: As a soundtrack for this chapter, I suggest "Ironic" by Alanis Morrisette.**

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Chapter Seven – Relations**

**When a friend is in trouble, don't annoy him  
****by asking if there is anything you can do.  
****Think up something appropriate and do it.**

– **E. W. Howe** **.**

##

_** Friday 29 July 2016, 10:30am **_

Wendy peeked through the curtains over one of the second-floor rear windows at the roofing crew as they loaded the carrier with the long, narrow sheets of copper. Only four of them had shown up: Chase, the young cat, and a pair of squirrels. All appeared irritable to one degree or another, and kept snapping at each other.

_Normally he brings at least half-a-dozen. Wonder why they're so short-pawed?_

She watched for a while, thinking, then tripped down to the kitchen, whipped up a pitcher of iced lemonade, and arranged it on a serving platter with several glasses. This she carried out to the rear porch, and set it on one of the wicker tables near the kitchen entrance.

The cat operated the controls; the squirrels stayed on the roof, prying the tiles off and hammering the new studs into place; and Chase organized the old slates in the bed of the trailer, then readied the next series of metal roof. Wendy watched surreptitiously for a few minutes, proceeding with her plan when Chase got to a good stopping place. He had everything prepared on the ground, but the guys on the roof had a ways to go before they'd need anything. She walked over, approaching from behind him, and leaned up against the side of the fire truck.

Chase turned to walk to the truck's cab, but pulled up short before his first step, giving Wendy a double-take. Her luxurious headfur hung down her back in a thick braid. She wore a wide-brimmed, white straw hat, a light-purple floral print halter top with butterfly sleeves, matching shorts, and a fetching smile.

"Hi."

". . . Hello. . . . Um . . . . How are you?"

"We've been over that ground before, if memory serves me. I'm doing great." Her smile widened, and he couldn't help mirroring it. "I've got some lemonade on the porch over there that wants drinking, next chance you get."

"Oh. . . . Thank you." He was obviously trying to come up with something to keep the conversation going, and just as obviously failing in the attempt. Wendy helped him out.

"Let's cut to the chase, Chase. I'd like to get to know you better, and if I'm any judge of such things you don't find the idea distasteful, either."

His paws shot up. "Oh, no! Not a t'all! That'd be wonderful!" He mopped his brow and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, both paws on his forehead. "Ah'm sorry Ah've been such an ass. Just don't seem t'be able ta think straight 'round you, ma'am." He peeked at her under his paws, then dropped his arms and took a deep breath. "How 'bout Ah make it up to you?" Here he bowed low in a most courtly fashion. "Would you do me the honor of accompanyin' me to dinner?"

"Why, thank you, sir. I do believe that would make for an enjoyable evening."

"When may I meet you?"

"Tonight a problem?"

He smiled back at her, his eyes widening. "Not a bit of it, ma'am. Want me to pick you up?"

"What if I meet you at your office instead?"

"Sure you don't mind?" he cautioned. "It's no trouble."

"Nope. Then I can make an entrance. Say, around five-thirty?"

"Sounds good to me, ma'am."

"Do me a favor?" she asked, closing the distance between them, and taking his paw in hers.

He grinned down at her, giving her paw a little squeeze. "Sure. Name it."

"Don't . . ." She pulled him down a little. ". . . call me . . ." She tilted her head upward so he could get under the brim of her hat, and closed her eyes. ". . . Ma'am." She kissed him – softly, briefly, but fully – then pulled back. "It's '_Wendy'_. Okay?"

"Anything you say, Wendy."

A chorus of whistles erupted from overhead, and both furs jerked and looked up. The squirrels were miming a passionate kiss, while the cat gave Chase the 'thumbs-up' sign with both paws.

Chase shook a fist at them. "Ahhh, shut up, you guys!"

Wendy giggled and meandered over to the shade of the porch, then turned back to the befuddled coyote. "Don't forget your lemonade, now." Glancing up at the rest of the crew, she added, "And play nice with the other kids."

##

_** 4:20pm **_

Wendy had done with the finishing touches in the smaller dining room by two-thirty, and didn't feel like starting on the second-floor private-dining suite just yet. She wasn't sure exactly what she wanted to do with it, and, anyway, her mind kept drifting to a contemplation of dinner. She'd agreed to let Chase surprise her with his choice of restaurant (after she'd posted a few ground rules) and her impatience grew apace with the afternoon.

She studied her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her wealth of deep-red headfur lay spread out over one shoulder as she brushed it with slow strokes. Gathering it up in one paw, she scrutinizing it with a practiced eye, pleased at its body, and dearth of split ends. _The right combination of conditioners makes all the difference in the world._

Not wanting to bowl him over completely on their first date, she'd donned a fairly conservative dress of navy blue, with white trim and buttons. Form-fitting, but not showy. She pulled her headfur back from her face and fixed it in place with a large barrette, turning sideways left and right to be sure it was centered.

She scowled as she paced the length of her room, checking the clock for the seventh or eighth time since getting out of the bath: an hour yet before she would need to leave.

"Screw this. He can just cut out early. It won't dock the pope's tail." So saying, she marched down to her vehicle and took off for town.

##

The city planner had set up the short street for parallel parking, normally a good choice for a small-business zone. Here, though, everyone had to use the street. There was no parking available behind the array of storefront offices, so the customers had to share with the owners and workers. Wendy grumbled at finding no spaces free in front of F&C Roofing. The nearest spot was all the way down at the end of the block. Not that she didn't like walking, but the heat was pretty brutal unless one stayed in the shade, and she didn't want sweat stains on her dress. She padded down the sidewalk as quickly as she dared, wishing she'd thought to wear a hat.

She was later to realize that her parking spot was the one bright ray in an otherwise dismal trip.

The chime on the door rang softly as she pushed it open and stepped into the blessed cool of the air-conditioning, sighing in relief. She looked around the shop, walking slowly toward the counter, peering down each of the three short aisles.

No Chase. No Levi. No customers.

She got to the counter and looked at the offices along the back walls. All three doors were closed. _Where __is__ that man?_ She turned to look back at the front of the shop when her sensitive ears picked up sounds coming from Mr. Fisher's office. She walked down to the right end of the counter and leaned over it, trying to identify the noises, drawing back in surprise and then blushing when she did. She stepped back from the counter.

What to do? If that _was_ Mr. Fisher in there, she certainly didn't want to disturb him. _Maybe I ought to wait for Chase out front._ She stood in the middle of the shop, gazing at the floor, her face clouded in indecision.

The choice was taken out of her paws when the chime announced another customer. Wendy looked up.

The black poodlette who walked in sported a complex, professional cut job, wore a slinky spaghetti-strap top and skirt of red sateen, had her large, round sunglasses propped up on top of her head, and in one paw carried, almost negligently, a nine-millimeter pistol. Wendy spotted the weapon and scooted behind a display case.

The canine sauntered over and looked Wendy up and down, then stuck out her empty paw. "Hey. I'm Nancy."

Wendy found the situation unique to say the least. She took the paw and gave it a timid shake, saying, "I, uh, I'm Wendy." She kept glancing down at the gun. "Um . . . is that real?"

Nancy smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. She turned slightly, lifted the gun, and blew apart a tool display. "Yeah, it's real."

A scream erupted from the office, and a few seconds later Chase, sans clothing, slammed the door open, and yelled, "What'n'ell's goin' on?" He spied the poodle and gasped.

"Hello, Chase." She drew a bead on him and fired. He yelped and ducked behind the counter, allowing the slug to blow a large hole in a sample of composite roofing tile instead.

Nancy looked down at the vixen and commented, "Hope you weren't planning on spending any time with that loser, 'cause that's something he's just about out of." Then she hop-skipped toward the counter and jumped over it. Chase jumped in the other direction at the same time.

Nancy called, "Hey, no fair!" and tried to track him with the pistol while at the same time regaining her balance. The coyote landed running and made it to the front before she could get off another shot. The large, plate-glass window fell to the sidewalk in a thousand pieces. Chase scrambled through the opening and high-tailed it down the street. Nancy ran out the front door in pursuit, and Wendy heard five more quick shots, a pause, then eight more. There was another, longer pause, maybe while she changed clips, then the gunfire started again. Either Chase's evasion techniques were good, or Nancy's aim wasn't.

As the reports faded in the distance, Wendy stood, gripping the display case tightly, and waited for her pulse to slow down. She picked up whimpering coming from the open office, walked over and peered in. A young cat with silvery-gray fur lay curled into a tight ball on the floor, her long, feathery, fluffy tail wrapped around her, eyes squeezed shut, both paws over her ears, her clothing spread over the desk.

"Excuse me, miss." This brought no response. Wendy popped over the counter, and went to the feline. She bent down and shook her gently, whereupon the cat gasped and nearly screamed. Wendy took a step backward. "It's okay, they're gone. You can get up now. Although if I were you, I'd get dressed first."

She opened her eyes, then looked up at Wendy and sniffed. "You sure?"

"I think so. That trigger-happy poodle ran him off down the street, and I haven't heard any more shots in the last minute or so." She offered her paw to the terrified girl, helping her sit up, noting in passing that she seemed awfully young. Definitely still in her teens.

Wendy sighed. _Stung again._

She knelt next to the girl and asked, "What's your name, honey?"

"P-Pam. Pamela Wh-Whisk."

Wendy patted her on the shoulder. "My name's Wendy." She studied the girl's face. _Not entirely feline. With that tail and the slight elongation of muzzle, I'd say she's part squirrel._ "So, how do you know Chase?"

Her pale green eyes teared up, and she began to sob quietly. "He's my – my daddy's – boss." This admission cranked up the waterworks a few notches, and her shoulders started shaking badly. "I ho–hope she blows that b–b–bastard full o' holes!"

Some awfully dark suspicions began to form behind Wendy's eyes. "Why is that?"

The girl wiped fiercely at her streaming eyes for several moments, trying to regain some measure of control. Wendy handed her a tissue, upon which she blew her nose. "Cause then he can't give us any more trouble, that's why. And I won't have to sneak over here no more, or put up with that . . . that . . ." Her tears returned with renewed vigor.

Nodding to herself at this new information, she asked. "How old are you, Pam?"

"I'll b-be si-sixteen in October."

Wendy rocked back, disgusted by the extent of Chase's perfidy. After gathering her thoughts, she reached up to the desk, retrieved the cat's undergarments and t-shirt, and passed them to her. "Here ya go. I'll wait outside while you get dressed."

"Th – th – thanks." Her facial fur was matting badly, an effect that did nothing for her appearance.

Wendy stood and left the office, closing the door behind her, then went out to the sidewalk to survey the damage. Neither Nancy nor Chase was anywhere to be seen, but a few furs had their heads out doors or windows, and several others were moving in her direction, some much more quickly than others. She looked at the cars sitting along the street, noting that most of them had at least one bullet hole. Three had shattered windows. Chase, mercifully, had run off in the opposite direction from where she had parked her minivan.

Sighing again, she opened her PA and punched 911.

##

_** Sunday 31 July 2016, 12:45pm **_

Pastor Grey stepped down from the lectern, lifted his arms, and said, "Receive the Lord's benediction."

Mrs. O'Musca stood with the rest, nudging Sean, her ten-year-old, and giving him the eye. He quickly popped up.

After the congregation was dismissed, the O'Musca's collected their various belongings and joined the slow, steady stream of furs filing out the front doors. Siobhan felt a tap on her shoulder, and glanced around.

Cinnamon Jones smiled a greeting and asked, "Got a minute?"

"Aye, several it would appear." She motioned to Martin. "Go ahead and take the rest out to the car, would ye, son?"

"Aye, Mum." He herded the other three toward the door.

The plump mouse turned back to Cinnamon. "What be on your mind?"

"Miz Wendy."

"Fancy that. I've been thinkin' about her, too. What thoughts have ye?"

"She's been here a month now, and as far as I can find out, nobody's given her an official welcome."

"Seems it be up to us then. Have ye plans for the morrow?"

Cinnamon grimaced. "Actually, yes. I have to go to Concord to meet an art dealer. I'm takin' the dibbun with me, and we won't be back 'til Wednesday afternoon."

"Well, perhaps I can go by m'silf."

"Who is going vhere?"

Cinnamon and Siobhan looked over and down into the twinkling eyes of a tiny, ancient shrew.

"Good day to ye, Amelie. M'self an' Cinnamon were jist goin' over who might be available to visit Miz Wylde out to the Manor. Be ye int'rested?"

"Ja. Sounds like fun. It's been many a year since last I stepped over zat t'reshold. Poor Zhulian, God rest his soul."

A young squirrelette with unusual fur markings came hopping up to Cinnamon and tugged on her skirt. "Mommy, can I go home with Janey? Please?"

Cinnamon smiled at her daughter. "Did Mrs. Stott invite you?"

"Janey invided me. Pleeease?"

"Lemme ask her mother if it's okay. She may not want any company this afternoon, what with a new baby in the house."

"We can help her! Me 'n' Janey are good helpers!"

"I just bet you are. Hang on 'til I get done here and we'll go see."

"Okay!" She turned and ran toward the rear door, calling to her friend.

Siobhan cocked her head to one side, thinking. "What about Elly? Wendy knows her already, more or less. They have a business arrangement."

"That'll work. Three oughta be enough. Don't wanna overwhelm the poor girl." She glanced at Amelie. "That suit you, ma'am?"

"Ja. Is fine vit' me. Vhat time?"

"How 'bout fixin' lunch and takin' it to her? I'll whip up a dessert for you tonight."

Siobhan grinned. "Think ye that I be up to th' challenge, then?"

"Aw, Wendy's nice. She wouldn't turn up her nose at anything you bring. 'sides, I bet she'll be tickled to get a free meal. It's gotta be runnin' up a bill, getting' that place fixed up. Plus she just hired Ellen to help in the kitchen. Even at minimum wage that's an expense you can't ignore."

"Aye, that's sensible. What say ye, Amelie? Shall we meet at ten o'clock, then? Say, on the square in New Haven?"

The tiny head nodded. "Is good."

Cinnamon clapped her paws. "Great! I'll call Elly and see if she's free." She spotted her daughter jumping frantically and waving. "Oops. I think maybe the Stotts want to leave. Gotta go. Good luck tomorrow!"

##

_** Monday 01 August 2016, 10:15am **_

As were the rest of the framing members in the house, the ceiling joists were heartwood. Very old Lebanese cedar heartwood. And if any of you has ever tried hammering a nail into very old heartwood, you will laugh out loud at the thought of someone trying use a staple-gun on it.

Wendy lay supine over four of the joists, reaching into a tight corner, and cursing non-stop at the staples that positively refused to penetrate the obdurate material. She'd stripped to her fur again in an attempt to battle the oppressive heat in the attic.

Drilling small holes through the wood and then lacing hold-down wires through them had been her standard procedure over most of the area, once she discovered the futility of nails. Even screws were a problem: it took so much torque to get them into the wood, she would either strip out the head or wring it off more often than not. So she had attached the wire-way brackets with twelve-gauge, plastic-covered, solid-core aluminum wire, as specified in the lousy, stinkin', idiotic, doubly- and triply-damned Handbook. The stuff hurt her paws when she tried to bend it, and the cut ends caught on everything that got within ten centimeters of it, including, or especially, her fur.

Against Quinn's advice, she'd bought a standard variety-pack of general-purpose drills, and discovered quickly that she could get only four or five holes out of one before it got too dull to cut. So she determined what sizes she needed the most of, and purchased several of the best, premium-grade drills that the big "home-improvement warehouse" in Bristol carried. They were cobalt-enriched (whatever that meant) and titanium-nitride-coated (again, whatever that meant), and cost about eighteen times as much as a standard drill would. BUT, she had yet to wear one out, and they made straighter holes as well.

However, maneuvering a big drill motor in this confined space had taxed her endurance, so she had been ready to believe the clerk at that same big hardware store when he'd suggested the staple gun. Now, though, she was ready to choke him.

She gave up, backed out of the narrow spot, sat up, and brushed some of the dirt off her front. _Ugh! I look like I leaned on a park bench with wet paint all over it._ Which was true. Her white torso fur had three horizontal stripes of grime. _I guess it's back to the damn drill._ She stood, wiped off the sweat for the fiftieth time, and was picking her way across the joists toward the two-thirds-height attic access door when the front doorbell sounded.

Normally this would not be a problem. Each of the three floors had a couple of chimes, stuck in some unobtrusive location, so that those inside could be made aware of visitors. They were just barely loud enough to be heard all over the house, certainly not so loud as to be annoying. Unfortunately, the fur who installed the chime had, for reasons known only to himself, mounted one in the attic as well. Perhaps he wanted to give some feedback to the visitor ringing the bell, or he may have had an extra: a leftover from some other job, that wouldn't go anywhere else. Whatever the reason, the attic chime was about six times as loud as the others. Wendy had just lifted her foot to step over to the next joist, and the sudden noise made her startle badly. She came down hard on that foot, missing the joist, plunging through the blown insulation, and cracking through the ceiling. She caught herself before she was more than calf-deep into the room below.

Gingerly, she extricated her leg, cursing all the while. She sat on a joist and looked at it, but couldn't really see much in the dim light. The shin hurt like crazy where it had knocked against the corner of the wood. She was sure the bone was bruised. Rubbing the leg, she got up, made it to the small door, and picked up her watch: a quarter past ten. Ellen wasn't due until noon. Ergo, Ellen was not downstairs.

Her expression got dangerously dark. Someone was about to get a comeuppance. She limped down the steep stairs to the third floor, pulled a sharp left out of that storeroom, and hopped down the northernmost of the large, spiral staircases, spilling out into the Upper Passage.

The bell rang again.

Her temper flaring, she practically ran to the second-floor balustrade, flung herself along it and down the front staircase, marched over to the front door, and yanked it open.

"**WHAT?**"

The two femme furs on the porch gaped at the sight of the angry vixen, covered in grimy dust, and naked as any feral.

Amelie closed her mouth, held out her paw, and said, "Good day to you, Miz Vylde. Ve t'ought ve'd drop by and velcome you to ze neighborhood."

At that point Wendy recognized Siobhan, and it was her turn to gape. "Oh, my." She looked down at herself, and blushed so deep a crimson it was easily visible through the white fur on her chest. She mumbled, "Excuse me," and pushed the door almost shut, retreating in confusion.

Siobhan and Amelie looked at each other. "What would ye make o' that, now?"

"I haven't ze slightest idea."

"Do ye think she'll be comin' back?"

The old shrew pondered the question, and nodded. "Ja. She must do so to save face. I t'ink she vas very ashamed vit' herself."

"Think ye so?" Siobhan was beginning to see the humor in the situation. "Well, it's sure and I would be, had I done that." She laughed at the picture that brought to mind. "Can't ye jist see me so?"

"No, Siobhan, I cannot. Nor do I vant to try."

The door reopened, and Wendy stuck her head out. "Siobhan, I'm really, _really_, _really_ sorry about that. This morning has been just one frustration after . . ."

"Doon't werry about it, lass. No harm done."

"Would you like to come inside and sit for a bit while I get cleaned up? It's more comfortable than standing on the porch, and while I have chairs and such out on the rear porch, I haven't gotten around to putting any here yet."

"Aye. Thank ye, then." They entered the foyer, noting that Wendy had a large towel wrapped around her.

"I won't be ten minutes. Be right back!" And she ran off up the stairs.

Amelie glanced up at her companion. "Interesting friends you keep, Siobhan."

The dormouse's eyes twinkled. "Aye. Keeps me young, it does."

They took seats in the hall, waiting patiently, chatting and looking all around at the improvements Wendy had made to the place: The mirrors, glass, and brass gleamed. They remarked on the excellent job she'd done with the frames. The walls, on the first floor at least, were painted a cheerful yellow, she'd re-done the trim in white, and the ancient hardwood floors had been stripped and refinished. After a few minutes, Siobhan squinted at the floor, marveling at the iridescent highlights in the wood.

"Amelie, have a look at this." They both leaned over for a closer look. The wood grain carried an almost metallic sheen, glinting in the indirect light slanting in from the front door.

The old shrew ran a gnarled paw along one of the inlays. "Vhat do you make of zat? It doesn't look like real vood."

"Maybe we should ask her, then."

"Ask me what?" Wendy stopped halfway down the staircase, puzzled at the sight of the two furs with their faces only centimeters from the floor. She had put on a conservative, dark-brown blouse and skirt, and they noted that her fur was still wet from her hurried bath.

"This wood, lass. It is wood, isn't it?"

"Oh! I see. Yeah. It's wood, but it isn't ordinary wood." She came on down the stairs and walked over to them. "It's an interesting story, if you'd like to hear it."

Both ladies nodded. "Please, we'd love to."

Wendy was glad to steer the subject away from her earlier . . . episode. "As I understand, the logs the parquet came from were harvested several hundred years ago, somewhere in Central Asia. They were floated down to the Caspian Sea in big rafts, and a lot of them sank before they could be cut up. There was some kind of big ship-building place around there, I think. Maybe? Well, anyway, about a hundred-fifty years ago they had a terrific storm there, and a bunch of these waterlogged logs washed up on the beach. Some of the locals used 'em to build furniture, or repair their houses and whatnot, and then somefur else noticed that a lot of them had sparkly grain. And even after drying out completely, they were a bit heavier than regular wood. The reason for all that is that the wood absorbed the minerals in the water over time. A few instrument makers got some of it, and made some really beautiful oboes and flutes and recorders, and the outside world started to find out about the wood. The rest of what washed up sold off pretty quickly, and the prices some were willing to pay would make your fur stand up. Then a group of investors decided to see if they couldn't corner the market on the stuff, and hired some daredevil divers to go down and retrieve the rest of them. There must have been an awful lot of them down there, because the whole first floor is covered with it." She grinned. "If you stick around long enough for the late-afternoon sun to hit it directly, you really _will_ see something! Almost too pretty to look at."

"My goodness." Siobhan realized then that what she was standing on was probably tens of thousands of dollars worth of rare wood. It took her breath a little, particularly given the narrow financial straits in which she'd spent the last few years. A few sections of this parquet could buy food for her family for months.

_Ah, well, not my place to judge how others spend their money._

She reorganized her thoughts, then introduced the shrew and the vixen to each other.

"That's a charming accent you have, ma'am," Wendy observed. "Are you from Germany?"

"Bavaria. But I haven't been back zere in . . . let's see . . . it vill be fifty years in November."

"Fifty years! Holy cats. Has anybody else from your family come over here?"

The aged muzzle dropped a little, and she favored Wendy with a sad smile. "No, child. I'm all zat's left."

Wendy frowned. "All . . . what do you mean?"

Siobhan put a paw on Wendy's arm. "She lost her family in the War, lass."

"Oh!" Wendy tried to remember what she could from her history courses. "Was that because of the bombing? I know they bombed a lot of the big cities, and furs scattered all over the continent."

Amelie shook her head. "Would you mind if we sat somevhere to talk? I have a touch of ze art'ritis and my old feet do get tired."

"Of course! I'm sorry, what was I thinking? Please, come this way."

##

After Wendy had established her guests in the small dining room, and served tea, they all sat down for a chat. Wendy had, indeed, been grateful for the generous lunch they brought, but cautioned them that Ellen would be along around noon.

"T'won't be a problem, lass. There be more than enough."

"Well that's good." She turned to Amelie. "So, ma'am, you were saying you lost track of your family during the War?"

The wizened visage wrinkled into a frown. "Vell, ve vere separated. But I don't t'ink you understand. My family died during ze Var."

"Oh." She put three fingers against the tip of her muzzle. "I'm sorry. You're right, I didn't get it." She was temporarily at a loss for words.

After several seconds of rather uncomfortable silence, Siobhan said, "Are ye all right, then, Amelie?"

"Ja, Siobhan. It's been too many years, and I am too old, to get vorked up over it ze vay I used to."

Siobhan turned to Wendy. "Ye see, Amelie's family was arrested and sent to Auschwitz."

_That_ name meant something to her! "Oh my lord! Your – your family died in a concentration camp?"

"Ja."

Wendy thought for a moment. "I saw a movie several years ago about Italian Jews who got arrested and sent to a work camp. It was called . . . something about life, now what was . . . _Life Is Beautiful_! That's it. They tried to hang on, hoping it would get better, but it didn't, and this guy and his son were sent to prison, only his wife didn't have to go because she wasn't Jewish, but she went anyway because she loved him. It was really . . . really intense." She shuddered slightly. "I can't imagine being put in a place like that. And you were there?"

"For eighteen mont's. Ve had t'ree boys and four girls in ze family, and zey split us up. Males on one side of ze compound, females on ze ozzer. I vas second child. My older brozzer vorked in ze smelter, and I heard after a few veeks zat he fell into ze melt." She paused and met Wendy's eyes. "He vas ze lucky one. Ze Nazis vorked us all to deat', and vhen ve could do no more, zey vould herd us into ze gas chamber, or put a bullet into ze back of ze head. I saw each of my sisters die, zen my Mutter. My Fazzer lived more zan a year, but zen he tried to stop a guard who vas beating my youngest brozzer, and ze guard shot zem both. And I vas alone after zat. Two mont's later, ze Allies came."

Wendy had been born almost thirty years after the end of the war in question. She had never really given it much thought before. It was one topic of several to be endured in school, and forgotten as soon as conveniently possible. History certainly had had no bearing on her career as an accountant, but history had never been personal before. Her eyes began to smart just a little. "And they did all that just because you're Jewish? It's so stupid!"

Siobhan gave her a puzzled look. "Who said she was Jewish?"

It was Wendy's turn to be confused. "But – I thought the Nazis rounded up all the Jews. Didn't they kill, like, millions of them?"

"Yes, lass, they did. But 'twas not only Jews they took."

"Really?"

"Really. They caught gypsies, Africans, members o' small cults or other religions, those wi' mental problems. Anyfur they didn't like, or thought wouldn't fit in wi' their plans."

Wendy looked back at Amelie, her expression of confusion becoming more intense by the second. "Which one of those are you, if you aren't Jewish?"

The tiny shrew smiled a tiny smile. "Lut'eren."

"So – so how'd you . . . I mean, why did they arrest you?"

"Because ve vere part of a group zat vas smuggling Zhews out of ze country."

". . . ? . . . Smuggling them out?"

"Ja."

"How?"

"Our house vas a safe-house. Ve had a hidden sub-basement. It vould hold, ten, maybe fifteen furs. Ve fed zem, let zem sleep, kept zem out of sight for a day or two or t'ree. Zen ve snuck zem out at night and led zem to ze next safe-house." She took a bite of one of the tea-cakes Wendy had served them, and shrugged. "Every ozzer fur zose days vas a spy for ze Nazis. Ve tried to be as careful as possible. But one night, one of our neighbors saw us vit' a group as ve left, and called ze Gestapo. Zey vere vaiting on us vhen ve got back."

Wendy shivered. "That's awful."

"Ja. I had no idea how awful it vas going to get. But I learned." She smiled at the vixen, and said, "But zat vas all more zan seventy years ago. Longer zan many furs live. Ve no longer have to deal vit' Nazis."

Wendy sniffed and replied, "No, I guess we don't. But we have terrorists, and bigots, and gangs, and junta leaders, and militant radical splinter groups, and assorted other small-to-medium-scale troublemakers. They don't make for a very good target, either, since they're so well-diffused across the globe."

Siobhan got a pensive look on her face. "Aye, there's truth in that, sure. 'Tis how I came to lose me own Martin."

Wendy perked at her comment. "That's right! Martin told me about that." She looked down, slightly bemused. "It sounds funny to talk about Martin telling me how you lost Martin."

Siobhan's eyes clouded. "Perhaps 'funny' be not quite the right word."

"I'm sorry. That wasn't very thoughtful, was it?" She frowned. "I seem to be doing a lot of that today."

"If ye be havin' problems, we'd like to help ye out any way we can. That's what we come by to speak on." She glanced over at Amelie with a twist to her muzzle. "Got a wee bit side-tracked, I'd say."

"Ja. Maybe you vould like to talk about zat now? Ve are interested in your story, too."

"Okay. Familiar ground suits me." She settled into her seat. "Well, it was like this . . . ."

##


	17. Chapter 7 Relations Part B

_**Chapter 7 – Relations – Part B**_

##

_** Tuesday 02 August 2016, 9:45am **_

Ellen carefully scored the top of the tall omelet, about one-fifth off-center, and flipped the short side up and onto the longer one, creating a fluffy, two-tiered mound of golden-brown satisfaction. She smiled to herself as she slid it expertly out of the pan and onto the serving dish. After garnishing it with very thin orange slices twisted together, fresh parsley, and dill, she scattered several grams of finely-shredded goat cheese over the lower lip of her creation. Then, picking up the platter, she turned gracefully and presented it to her employer, who was seated at the table.

Wendy leaned over and put her nose close to the omelet, drawing in a deep snoot-full of the heavenly aroma. "Well, kid, if it tastes as good as it looks and smells, we have a winner." She proceeded to cut out a small section, and popped it into her mouth, chewing slowly and swallowing with great relish. "My, my, my, my, my."

"So what's the verdict?"

"I think the jury will have to have another sample, just to be sure." Several more bites vanished in short order while Ellen watched, grinning.

"And how's the jury feeling now?"

"Replete. You done good."

"Not too much sugar?"

"Oh, heavens, no. It was perfect. Just enough to encourage a nice crispness in the lower crust. You hit the vanilla right on the button, too."

Ellen was all smiles. "Thanks!" She eyed the remains of the dish. "Y'know, I haven't really had breakfast, either. Just an English muffin before my run this morning."

"Well, by all means, dig in." She pushed the plate over to the other femme, who set to with at least as much enthusiasm as had Wendy, and shortly cleared the deck.

She leaned back in her seat. "Yeah. You're right. It'll do."

"Okay. Now that – excuse me (she produced a small burp) – we've established that you don't need a keeper to work in the kitchen, how about getting familiar with the books?"

"Books? Really? You want me to be doing bookkeeping, too? I thought _you_ were the accountant."

"Slow down there, Tex, I didn't mean that at all. I just want you to be able to look up things for me, and hold down the fort if I have to be gone for any length of time, that's all. I'll still do all the balances."

"Well, in that case, lead on McDuff." And she followed Wendy out of the kitchen.

##

_** 2:15pm **_

The plaster on the inner wall of the northern half of the Rear Hall was seriously distressed. So much so that Wendy had decided early on to just replace it rather than try to patch it. She and Ellen were hard at it, and the air was heavy with dust, when the landline rang.

"Ellen, would you mind?" asked Wendy, indicating the kitchen with one elbow.

"Sure! Maybe I can breathe, then." She padded down the hall. Half a minute later, Wendy heard her name being called, sighed, put down the small prybar she was using, and followed Ellen's voice.

She took the phone from Ellen's paw and spoke into it. "Go ahead, it's your dollar."

Ellen went to the refrigerator and pulled out a club soda, silently asking Wendy if she wanted one as well. Wendy pointed at a V-8, which Ellen retrieved and set on the counter. She listened to Wendy's side of the conversation.

"Oh, hi, Mr. Fisher, what can I do for you? . . . No, I haven't. . . . Yes, I know, that's why I hired your company in the first. . . . What kind of discrepancy? . . . Oh, you have _**got**_ to be kidding. . . . No, not a word! . . . But _how_ could he _do_ that? . . . Does your accountant have any idea? . . . That reptilian sack of shit ! . . . Well, how much is it? . . . _**WHAT?**_ . . . Well, what's that leave _me_? . . . Is that ALL? . . ."

Wendy had started pacing early in the conversation, and now she flopped down into a chair, defeat clearly written on her features. Ellen came over and knelt down next to her.

"Mr. Fisher, could you – could you wait a minute, please? I'm afraid I wasn't ready for this news." She dropped the phone into her lap and turned hollow eyes on Ellen. "Chase took all the money they got for the slate so far."

The mink rested a paw on Wendy's shoulder. "Ohhhhhhh . . . . . . . boy."

She put the phone to her ear. "Mr. Fisher? Um, could you, um, come out here and, uh, give me a more accurate estimate? Yeah, I'll be here. Yeah, four o'clock's fine. See ya." She handed the phone to Ellen, who hung it back up, then came back and resumed her position next to the stricken vixen.

"Fifty-eight thousand dollars."

"_How_ much?"

"Fifty-eight thousand dollars. That's what's missing. Chase handled all the sales, and Mr. Fisher just assumed he was putting it into the corporate account. They have an accountant come in and resolve the books once a month, but he only knows what gets written down, and Chase didn't write anything down."

"I guess it's not in his bank account, huh?"

"Not the one his partner knows about, anyway." She smacked the table. "Come on." She got up and strode out of the room, taking long steps.

"Where to?"

"Upstairs. If I don't hit something, I'll explode. And I need you to hold the punching bag."

##

_** Thursday 04 August 2016, 4:45pm **_

Wendy had assembled the ingredients for her evening meal when the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hey, Wendy, this is Cinnamon. Would you mind a visit?"

"What, right now?"

"Yeah."

She looked around the kitchen. "Well. . . . I was just about to put supper together, but this recipe makes enough for six, so, sure, I guess."

"Nah. Don't worry about it. I'll pick up a pizza on the way over. See ya in a few!"

"Ah, Cinnamon, wait. . . ." But all she had was dial tone. Damn. Pizza, of all things. A month's worth of grease in one easy package. How, tactfully, to get out of eating it? She turned the thought over a couple of times, and went back to preparing her casserole. Alternatives! Variety! Maybe that would do it.

True to her word, Cinnamon rang the porte-cochère doorbell exactly twenty-two minutes after talking with Wendy. The vixen trotted up the South Hall to let her in, then drew up in slight shock at the sight of the small squirrel child holding Cinnamon's left paw. She looked from the little one to Cinnamon and back twice, then moved aside and said, "Won't you come in?"

"Thanks!" The squirrel balanced a large pizza box (_it would be a large, wouldn't it?_) on her other paw as she and her daughter followed Wendy down the hall.

Wendy's mind raced. _Is that her child? Is she babysitting? A niece, maybe?_ The little girl didn't look much like Cinnamon. Her fur was a light grayish tan except for her ears and paws, which darkened to chocolate brown, while her headfur was so blonde it seemed nearly white. She almost had to be a hybrid of some sort.

Cinnamon chattered amiably about the house, admiring its various features, and making much over the copper roof along the front, so Wendy's replies could easily be limited to grunts and monosyllables. It gave her a chance to collect her thoughts by the time they reached the kitchen.

"Here, Cinnamon, let me set that down on the cutting board."

"Thanks!" She passed the box to Wendy, and watched her daughter as the child took in the attributes of the enormous kitchen.

"Mommy, this place is hooooge!"

_Mommy! She called her Mommy! That __is__ her daughter!_

Wendy had herself together by the time they all got seated. "Cinnamon, I didn't know you had a daughter."

The squirrel gave her a look of complete surprise. "Really? Gosh, I guess that's right. You never met before, did you? Well, pardon me!" She turned to the girl. "Honey, I'd like you to meet Miz Wendy Wylde." Wendy extended her paw, and the little squirrel took it without the slightest trace of shyness. "Wendy, this is my daughter, Emily, my most powerful blessing and greatest accomplishment to date."

She smiled at Wendy. "Nice to meet you, ma'am."

At the mention of the child's name, Wendy had frozen. Her heart skipped a few beats, her face rigid, her eyes suddenly hot. But she fought off the panic attack before making an idiot of herself in front of Cinnamon. "It's . . . it's nice to . . . to meet you, too, . . . Em . . . Emily." She drew a ragged breath and composed herself as well as she could.

"You okay, Wendy?" Cinnamon's brow furrowed in concern.

"I'm fine. I just had . . . it was a . . . sort of a flashback."

Cinnamon's frown flipped over. "Now, I _know_ you didn't live through the Sixties!"

Wendy managed a shade of a grin. "Not that kind of flashback." She looked back at the little girl and forced a pleasant smile. "How old are you, if you don't mind my asking?"

"I'm five."

"Five! Well! Nearly grown up."

Cinnamon laughed. "You don't know the half of it. She's got more self-confidence than a double-pawful of grownups, and working on the vocabulary to match."

Emily pointed at the pizza box. "Can we eat now, Mommy?"

"Sure, kiddo! Wendy, if you'll point out the plates. . . ."

"No need, I've got 'em right here." She reached around behind her, opened the sideboard and retrieved three lunch-sized plates, and the silverware to match. She set a place for each of them, then went to the large, upright freezer and pulled out three icy mugs. "What'll it be? I've got tea, milk, o-j, apple juice, V-8, . . ." Here she opened the smaller refrigerator and double-checked inventory. ". . . cream soda, root beer, cola, and one of those echinacea drinks."

"That lizard stuff?"

"That's the one."

"That's for me. Love those things."

Emily piped up, "I'd like milk, please!" She frowned, then asked, "Is it real milk?"

Wendy raised an eyebrow. "Real as opposed to what?"

Cinnamon chuckled. "She means, is it fresh or powdered? We use powdered milk now and then, and she doesn't much like it." She reached over and laid her paw on the back of Emily's neck, giving a little squeeze.

"Oh! I see. No, this is fresh." She grinned at the little squirrel. "You're safe."

While she poured the drinks, the timer on the convection oven started ringing. "Cinnamon, would you mind getting that?"

"No prob." She hopped up, snatched a mitt off its hook, and opened the oven. A rich, herbal scent filled the room, and her eyes widened. "Great day, Wendy! You didn't hafta do this!" She set the casserole on its trivet on the table and put her nose down to get a fuller smell. "Mighty glad you did, though. What is it?"

"Herbed Lemon-Chestnut Shrimp Toss. I had everything put together when you called, so I just went ahead and baked it. Figured we could use a side dish with the pizza." Pointing at one end of the casserole dish, she said, "The shrimp are all on this side, in case you aren't feeling particularly carnivorous." She went back to the fridge and pulled out a serving bowl. "Got a carrot-walnut-raisin salad, too."

Cinnamon stood and turned to face Wendy, putting her paws on her hips. "You sure there ain't some squirrel in your background somewhere?"

The vixen laughed. "Not a drop, sorry. I just like to cook."

"Suits _me_ down to the ground. Let's do it." As they took their seats, Wendy noted an expectant look on Emily's face. "You need anything, dear?"

Cinnamon said, "She's just waiting to say grace. Go ahead, sweetie."

The squirrels bowed their heads and the little girl gave a simple thanks for the meal while Wendy observed silently.

The pizza turned out to be a cheese-less vegetarian variety. This, Wendy thought upon reflection, should not have surprised her. She ventured a bite and found it quite tasty.

"Where'd you get this? It's very unusual."

"Little place up Highway 7. They just do lunch, and cater to the vegetarian crowd. Couple o' bears run it."

"But bears are omnivores! All the ones I ever met, anyway."

"These guys are from India. They're Hindu, and fairly devout. There are no animal products of any kind in that pizza. Not dairy, not egg, nothin'."

Wendy made a mental note to go by the place and see what the competition had to offer.

After lunch, Emily asked if she could play outside. Cinnamon considered the request. "What do you think, Wendy?"

"Should be fine. I don't believe there are any large, feral animals around." _No dangerous ones, anyway_, she thought to herself, remembering the fox that had spoken to her.

Emily pleaded, "I just wanna go see the creek."

Cinnamon looked at Wendy. "How far is it?"

"I don't remember. It's been over twenty years since I walked up to the creek, and I haven't had a chance to renew our acquaintance since moving back. I don't even know if the trail is still there."

"Pleeeease?" Emily begged.

"Stay in sight of the house. Stay out of the water. And stay _out_ of _trouble_."

"Okay, Mommy, thanks! And thank you, Miz Wylde." She darted off.

"Hey, Cinnamon, I've got some Jamaican coffee beans. You interested?"

"You bet! I'd grind 'em by paw to get a cup."

Wendy grinned. "Not necessary. Just sit tight."

Ten minutes later they were comfortably established in a couple of chaise lounges on the rear porch, where they could listen for, and occasionally catch a glimpse of, Emily. After her first sip, Wendy asked, "Cinnamon, didn't you say you'd moved here from Kentucky?"

"Atsa right."

"Would you mind telling me how you ended up choosing this area? Not that I don't think it pleasant, it's just that western Vermont doesn't usually come to mind when one thinks of new and exciting places to move to."

Cinnamon chuckled at her observation. "There is something to that, yes. But at the time, I wasn't so much moving _to _anywhere as I was moving _away _from something. And you gotta admit, this place is about as 'away from' as you can get, east of the Mississippi."

_Moving away from something. Well, we have that in common._

Cinnamon set her cup on the small, round table between the lounges and steepled her fingers. "When I got out of high school, I went to the University of Kentucky. It was in-state, and I had a National Merit scholarship, and I wanted to study computers, so there you are. I did pretty well, made Dean's List now and then, dated around a good bit. Y'know, the general college scene."

Wendy held her cup close to her chest, allowing the aromatic vapors to wreathe her muzzle as she remembered her own college days. "Yeah. That _was_ fun, wasn't it?"

Cinnamon picked up her cup and took a large swallow. "Things stayed pretty normal for a year and a half. Then, near the end of my sophomore year, I met Justin."

Wendy's ears pricked forward.

"My roommate's best friend was this total geek who got heavy into role-playing games. She kept after us to try it, and Susan finally broke down and started playing. Then she got hooked, and I decided if I ever wanted to see either of them I'd probably have to play, too, so I went with her to the student center the next Wednesday night. The guy leading the thing – they call him a Dungeon Master, but I don't know why, we never did anything with a dungeon, just trucked around the countryside of his world – was this Siamese cat, and was he cute! He had a real flair for the thing, too, and I got into it pretty quick. We played together twice a week, and I found out before too long that Justin wasn't seeing anyone."

She paused for a few seconds' thought. "I guess I threw myself at him. He was pretty dense about boy-girl relationships. But he finally got a clue, and we started dating. It got physical real fast." She took another sip of her coffee. "Funny thing was, he was a virgin. I wasn't. Hadn't been for about five years. Where we grew up, it'd be pretty unusual, even weird, for a girl over fifteen or sixteen to still be inexperienced. It was like you were expected to put out, and everybody, most everybody anyhow, felt that way. Kinda like a cultural thing." She stopped and smiled at Wendy. "Don't know if the background is necessary or not, but that's where I came from."

"Wow. My Dad would've freaked if he'd thought I was gonna do anything like that."

"Your Dad pretty conservative, is he?"

"Was. He died when I was eleven."

"Oh." She blinked at Wendy a few times. "That's real sad. Did your Mom ever remarry?"

"She never did, no. She died several years later, in ninety-seven."

". . . . . . Nineteen ninety-seven? That'd be . . . nineteen years ago?"

"Right."

Cinnamon was running the numbers through her head. "What year did your Dad die?"

"Nineteen eighty-five."

"But . . . but that would . . . would make you . . ."

"Forty-two."

Cinnamon put her cup down and stared at Wendy. ". . . . . . Are you pulling my leg?"

Wendy huffed. "Do we have to go through this _every_ _single_ _time_ somebody finds out . . ."

"No! I'm sorry! I just thought you were about my age, is all. I'm twenty-seven." She gave Wendy a critical up-and-down, leaned toward her, and drew a deep breath in through her nose. Then she sat back and observed, "You must work out a _lot_."

_**[ This seems to be as good a place as any, Gentle Reader, to explain a little about the things that affect a fur's apparent age. I realize that most of you are furs, but it is possible that the occasional human may stumble across this site, and thus find some of the characters' reactions confusing. This explanation is for them. **_

_**Although most species' fur tends to be only about a centimeter or two long over most of the body, and may be even shorter on the face, it is also typically somewhat dense. Since the skin is not readily visible, the slight wrinkles that begin to show on humans between twenty and forty years old aren't evident, so we are constrained to use other methods. Now, humans may think some of these clues quite subtle, but then they aren't blessed with the range of senses we are.**_

_**Scent tops the list. Most humans can't smell the difference between a young fur and an old fur, but it usually whacks us right across the snout. There are commercial products that can mask the scent to some degree. Most perfumes and colognes contain (at the least) small amounts of these chemicals. But those of us with sharper noses, of course, can't be fooled.**_

_**The condition of the fur is an excellent indicator, assuming it is left in its natural state, but again, there are many wonderful conditioners available that can keep one's fur kitten-soft. Wendy uses her own special combination, to marvelous effect. **_

_**Related to this is the appearance of the eyes. As one ages, they lose a little of their brilliance, the whites get more yellow, and a small rim of pink or red becomes visible. Eye drops can offset these tells, but must be re-applied several times a day.**_

_**The claws/nails and teeth wear down or get dull with time, but teeth can be professionally sharpened, and manicures can cover a multitude of sins. A steady stream of insecure males going through mid-life crises (and aging females trying to maintain their looks) keeps the tooth-sharpening industry in business.**_

_**All this by way of saying that a fur's age is usually obvious to other furs, within five years at most, up to about fifty or sixty. But here's the kicker: in many cases, a regimen of vigorous exercise and a diet carefully tailored to the individual species can offset the overt effects of aging almost completely for many years. This is where we have it all over humans, genetically speaking: we really **__**can**__** slow the biological clock. Unfortunately, most of us (myself included) don't bother, since we seem to have in common with humans a manifest propensity for expending as little energy as possible most of the time.**_

_**Wendy, on the other paw, spends an hour or two a day in extreme aerobic conditioning of one type or another, and is almost painfully scrupulous about what she eats.**_

_**The upshot of this is that she smells about fifteen years younger than she is, doesn't sag anywhere, and has the spring in her step, the gloss on her fur, and the shine in her eye of someone in her late twenties. Tomas Merced, her karate instructor back in Pennsylvania, is seven years her senior, but since he takes his overall health even more seriously than she does, he appears just as youthful. Each of them can expect to maintain an active lifestyle at least into the eighth decade, and possibly much further than that.**_

_**I apologize for re-stating what to most of you is utterly obvious, but I felt a duty to my human readers to supply this information. **_

**_Now, back to the visit. ]_**

"Aaah. S'okay. Didn't mean to get my hackles up. I recently had a bad experience with a guy who thought I was under thirty and wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."

"Oh-ho! Well, that's understandable."

"I didn't mean to get you off-track. You started dating Justin ..."

"Yeah. We got very close. He met my folks (though they weren't too happy, him not being a squirrel), asked me to marry him, gave me an engagement ring, the whole show. Then, when we'd been dating a little over a year, I turned up pregnant."

". . . . . Oops."

"Something like that. I figured, 'Well, now I guess we'll go ahead and get married.' But he didn't want to. He wanted me to get an abortion."

"Serious?"

"Oh, yeah." Cinnamon's gaze was distant. "We talked it over a _**LOT**_, and he was convinced it was the right thing to do. I just didn't know, though. I mean, this was gonna be my child. _Our_ child."

"So you couldn't do it, and you had Emily?"

Cinnamon didn't seem to hear her. "He told me he'd pay for it. That we had to finish school before starting a family, that we were both too young to be parents. He had dozens of arguments. He kept on, and kept on, day in, day out, never let up." She stopped speaking, staring a hole in the carpet for many long seconds. Wendy said nothing, waiting for her to continue in her own time.

Cinnamon vented a low sigh. "So I did."

Wendy's ear flicked. _What was that?_ "You did what?"

"Had an abortion."

"But . . . I thought that Emily . . ."

"No."

_Maybe Emily's adopted! That must be why . . . no, come to think of it, Emily does look like a cross between a squirrel and a Siamese cat. What's going on?_ "So, what happened?"

"Well . . . . we met at the clinic. He paid for it. I went into one of the little rooms in the back, got on an exam table, and they used a long, curved knife to . . ."

"No, I mean afterward. How'd you get Emily?"

Cinnamon gave her a small, sad smile. "Emily is why I moved to Vermont. After the abortion, he perked right up. It was like old times, having fun with him, discussing our eventual marriage and life together. But I didn't 'get over it' as they say. Finally, after several months of soul-searching, I came to realize that I had wanted to have the baby. I mean really wanted it. In my heart, I began to lay all the blame on Justin, and it came out in our relationship as arguments and nit-picking. We started playing head games with each other. After several months, I intentionally stopped taking the heat-control pills, and got pregnant again, about four months before graduation. I found out during the last week of winter quarter, right before finals. Justin was livid. We had us a good, old-fashioned screaming contest. He _demanded_ that I get another abortion, and I _demanded_ that he act like a grown-up and marry me. It blew up in my face, though. We didn't speak to each other for that whole week."

Cinnamon picked up her coffee and slowly drained the remaining liquid, then sat with it in both paws, staring into the bowl. After a moment she spoke again. "I came back to our apartment when I got finished with my last final exam, and there was no trace of him. No clothes, no books, no shampoo, nothing. It was like he'd been erased."

"You mean he just walked out on you?"

"Yeah. Pulled a Casper. I _really_ lost it then. Got frantic, started phoning everyone who knew him, trying to find him, but he'd been pretty meticulous in covering his tracks."

"That slimy _bastard_!"

"Or words to that effect. I had some more colorful terms for him, believe me."

"What'd you do?"

She gave a small shrug. "For close to a week, not much of anything. Moped around the apartment, called Susan up and cried with her. Or she cried with me. She'd been dead set against my first abortion, and told me she more or less expected that I'd get pregnant again."

Wendy frowned at that statement. "Why in the world would she think that?"

"It's a pretty common reaction, really. Oh, I know you don't hear about it much. That side of the industry doesn't get what you'd call thorough media coverage, but it's one of the more frequent outcomes. You miss the baby. You want the baby. You make another baby as a replacement." She threw half a smile Wendy's way. "Not that I knew any of that at the time. But I've learned an awful lot since."

_You miss the baby. Well, I certainly do know about __that__ aspect of the situation._

"So. Obviously you didn't have a second abortion, right?"

"Right. Y'know, growing up, I'd never expected to be doing the single-mom thing, but there was _no way_ I was losing that baby. I called my folks and asked if I could pop home for a visit." She added, by way of explanation, "I was on full scholarship and didn't have two dimes to rub together. They sprung for a round-trip bus ticket."

"Nice of them."

"You think? I'd been home two days before I got up the nerve to tell them they were going to be grandparents." Cinnamon frowned as she recalled the details of the incident. "We'd never had what you'd call a 'close' family. Oh, they provided for my needs, it's not like I ever went hungry or anything. And they did seem to care about my getting an education. But I think it was more along the lines of presenting a respectable front to the community. Or somethin'." She sighed. "Knowin' 'em the way I did, I didn't expect they'd be exactly thrilled. I figured they'd get mad and fuss at me for being careless. Or they'd cry and moan a while and get over it. You know, parent stuff."

Wendy chuckled. "Yeah. Mom was pretty ticked off when she found out I'd taken time away from college to travel around the country with a rock band." Her muzzle twisted in wry memory. "So which was it?"

"Neither. They didn't say anything for a minute, then Dad got up, helped Mom up, and led her back to their room, where they talked for a long while. Dad came back alone, and handed me my duffle and the bus ticket. He said, 'We called a cab. It'll be here any minute. You can wait outside.' Then he went back to their room and locked the door. The taxi showed up, I rode it to the bus station, and took the bus back to the university."

The calm, almost deadpan delivery of this pronouncement stunned Wendy. "They . . . they _threw_ you _out_?"

"Uh-huh."

". . . . . . . . . . . . . And?"

"And that was the last thing he ever said to me."

". . . Wow. Oh, wow."

Cinnamon nodded.

"You, um, ever try to, y'know . . ."

"Dozens of times. Maybe hundreds. I had a friend drive me back the next weekend, but they'd changed all the locks, and they weren't home. They changed their phone to an unlisted number, and got a new e-mail address, to boot." She was staring at a spot on the wall to the left of Wendy's head. "About a month later, I got a package. Had my baby book, an old scrapbook, my birth certificate, a few other odds and ends. They never responded to any of the messages I sent through my Aunt May. That's Mom's sister. She doesn't want to 'get involved', but she _will_ pass messages. She's met Emily, but she told me my parents never even opened any of the letters I sent with pictures of their grandchild. And I'm their only child."

Wendy's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "Why would they do . . . how could someone . . . what makes them that way? They're really whacking off their own noses, not getting to know Emily. She's a charmer."

"Yeah. Best I can tell, it's because she's mixed-species. It was never really discussed much when I was growing up. They just always assumed I'd marry a squirrel, I guess. I've never gotten any confirmation one way or the other. It's not like they have any strong religious conviction or anything, either. It's really come home to me, over the past five years, just how deep their hypocrisy runs. They all but encouraged me to fool around, and then to react the way they did. . . ." She gave her head a small shake. "Pretty sad."

Wendy sat silently, absorbing the tale, then commented, "That still doesn't explain how you got here."

"Right you are. Okay, let's see. I still had a quarter to go. Piece of a quarter, really, just two elective classes, so I tried something different on a whim. Took a life-sketching class and a ceramics class."

"Quite a departure from computer science."

"Pregnant women do that sort of thing sometimes. And it's not as big a swing as you might think. There's a lot of art in crafting a well-running program."

"Sez you."

"No, really! You'd be surprised how close math lies to art."

"You're right about that. I'd be very surprised."

Cinnamon stuck her tongue out at Wendy. "Hush up and listen. The instructor in my ceramics class took an interest in me. She said I had lots of potential as a sculptor, and why in the world had I wasted my time on computers? She didn't make the math-to-art connection either, but I've managed to turn it into a career."

Wendy gave her a look. Cinnamon just smiled. "I'll get to that, okay?"

"Ooookey-doke."

"So it turned out I had an aptitude for working with clay. Came up with some pretty nice pieces in the class. But I was getting more and more depressed about my upcoming motherhood. I mean, there I was, not yet twenty-two. Never had younger sibs to take care of, heck I never even baby-sat. What did I know from good parenting techniques? Started to get me down in a major fashion. I missed a class, then two in one week, and Shay came to my apartment to find out why."

"Shay?"

"Sorry. Sharon. Sharon Marken, my instructor. She dug the story out of me and I ended up crying on her shoulder for two solid hours. So she told me about a counseling center near campus that offered help for girls in my position, called them on the spot, and made an appointment for me."

"Counseling center? It wasn't one of those crisis-pregnancy places, was it? I've heard about those. You don't want to have anything to do with them."

Cinnamon raised an eyebrow. "Matter of fact, it was. Several of the local churches sponsored it, and I wasn't in a position to be all that critical. They took me in, offered their support, and gave me something I'd never, _ever_ had before."

"And that would be?"

"Unconditional love."

Several things ran through Wendy's mind then. Although she knew her parents had loved her unconditionally, since their deaths she'd never again experienced it, personally. She was pretty sure Chris and Sabrina felt that for each other, but she knew damn few other couples who could say the same. To find such a rare commodity at a _counseling center_? Hard to believe. Wendy had watched a couple of TV-exposé specials about those places. Did Cinnamon really know what she was talking about? Or had they just been blowing smoke up her tail?

"Um . . . okay. What did they do?"

"Listened to my troubles and never judged. Helped me understand some things about my relationship with Justin. Taught me basic baby care. Set me up with the county Women-with-Infant-Children program." She paused briefly to lock eyes with Wendy. "Introduced me to God."

The vixen frowned. "What do you mean?"

"Just what I said." She tipped a small shrug. "I didn't know God. My parents never had anything to do with church, I don't even remember there being one in my hometown. All I knew about God was what I saw on TV, and it wouldn't be an understatement to describe the media's view of Him as skewed."

"I never really paid much attention." Wendy's features hardened. "Look, if you're trying to convert me, you can give it up right now."

"Convert you? From what?"

"From anything. I don't go in for that stuff. I have as good a relationship with God as I want, thanks. I don't need any brainwashing."

Cinnamon's expression curled into a quizzical form somewhere between a grimace and a smirk. "Brainwashing, huh?"

"Or whatever. I'm not buying it."

Cinnamon rested her head on one fist. "Well. I'd call that a bit of an over-reaction. Did I say anything that sounded remotely like preaching?"

"Not yet. But I've heard the pitch before, and it always starts out all innocent and such."

The squirrel crossed her legs and settled back in the lounge, paws on tummy. "Well I'm not pitching anything. You're curious to know how I got here. This is part of the story. You want it or not?"

Wendy realized she'd screwed up. She leaned forward and took Cinnamon's paw. "I'm sorry. Really. I don't know what's gotten into me; that was positively pugnacious. I didn't mean to insult you, or belittle your faith. It's just that . . . oh, I don't know. Lots of well-intentioned idiots have tried to shove religion down my throat in the past, and there I go projecting it onto you. Mea culpa. Forgive me?"

Cinnamon's face gradually stretched into a wide smile. "You bet."

Wendy's relief was palpable. "Good. So tell me about the counseling place. They treated you well, and then what?"

"They found that I had an artistic bent and set me up to show a few pieces at a local craft fair. Every last one sold. See, my grades in CompSci had been okay, but nothing to alert the papers over. And you know what a glut there's been on the market for the last several years."

Wendy nodded. "You couldn't find work in your field."

"Check."

"Lotsa that going around." She picked up her coffee cup, noted its lack of contents, and set it back down with a frown.

"Well, it didn't go around me. Hit me square on the muzzle. It was touch-and-go there for a while before Emily came, especially that last quarter at school." She shuddered. "To this day I can't look a ketchup sandwich in the face."

"Bleeah."

"You said it. So, anyhow, finding something I could do that would make me some folding green was a real Godsend. Shay had contacts all over the northeast, and I started doing as many shows as I could get to. Mostly in Ohio. Cincinnati is right on the border, y'know, and they have bunches of those things. I started doing portrait sculptures, kinda surreal-looking stuff. That's how I paid my medical bills. Hoity-toity types from the ritzy sections seemed awful fond of 'em."

"Heh. So basically, your computer training got tossed."

"Weellllll . . . I wouldn't go that far. I used a three-D modeling program to see what the finished pieces would look like before I started them. It saved lots of time, not to mention wear and tear on the paws, to let the consignee approve the piece up front."

"Cool!"

"So. I graduated, although I just had 'em mail me the diploma. Went into sculpting full time. Worked like a dervish, promoting my work, doing consignments, glad-pawing anybody Shay introduced me to. Had to turn down a couple of things, 'cause they were too risqué. You wouldn't believe what some folks want in the way of statuettes."

"Wanna bet?"

Cinnamon grinned. "Okay, maybe you would. I wouldn't know."

"How much did the pregnancy interfere with your work?"

"Not as much as you might think. I'd heard lots of stories about the horrors of morning sickness, the fatigue, weird cravings, all that stuff. Never had any of it."

"Really?"

"Yep. Just got a big belly and not much else."

"You lucky duck. I had the whole schmear every time."

Cinnamon's eyebrows rose. "You got kids?"

Wendy blinked as her train of thought stalled. She hadn't meant to bring this up. "Uhh . . . no." Further words stuck in her throat.

"Hey, no problem, not to pry. Your life. You don't have to talk about it if you don't want to."

"No. That's okay." She paused, brow furrowed. "I – well – I lost a daughter." She took a deep breath. "Her – her name was Emily, too."

Cinnamon put a paw to her muzzle, then reached for Wendy's paw. "Oh, girl! I'm so sorry. That's awful!"

"It's been ten years. Was ten years in June since . . . since she died." She drew a long, deep breath.

Her guest was in mild shock. "No wonder you flipped when I introduced her. I can't even start to begin to commence to imagine what that would be like. Don't think I want to know."

"You don't."

Cinnamon paused, not saying anything for a bit, then asked, "How old was she?"

Another deep breath. "Not quite six months."

"Uff." The squirrel's eyes brightened with unshed tears. "I just . . ." Impulsively, she slid out of the lounge and knelt next to Wendy, put her arms around the startled vixen, and gave her a tight hug. "I feel so bad for you, having to go through that."

Wendy reached a hesitant paw up and patted Cinnamon's back. "Uh . . . thanks. It's okay. Really." This felt oddly familiar.

Sabrina!

Sabrina had held her like this, with the same unquestioning, undemanding, supportive friendship. She leaned her head over and rested it on top of Cinnamon's. _This feels nice. I don't get nearly enough hugs any more._

Emily came running up. "Mom! Mom! You gotta come look atta tree! It's booful!" She tugged at Cinnamon's paw.

Cinnamon relaxed her hold and stood, then Wendy got up. "I'll come, too. You can finish your story, and I feel the need for a walk."

##

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. . .

**Author's Notes: All right, Dear Readers, time for some feedback. My hit counter proves that SOMEONE is reading this. But no one seems inclined to comment. At all. You Have A Voice, Gentle Reader! Use it! Any feedback is welcome.**

**Parts of this story are (believe it or not) semi-autobiographical in some respects. A virtual cookie to the first one who identifies them as they appear.**


	18. Chapter 7 Relations Part C

_**Chapter 7 – Relations – Part C**_

##

_** Thursday 04 August 2016. 5:30pm **_

There were no customers in the Fixit Shop. Martin was busy with the paperwork. Karl nodded to himself and walked toward the rear of the building, snagging a couple of PowerBars off the display rack as he passed, and made his way up the stairs to the small loft that comprised his living quarters. He'd modified the roofline so that he could stand up without putting his scalp in danger, but even though it did run the length of the structure front-to-back, it was still quite narrow, the usable space only some three meters wide. A compact kitchen unit and an all-in-one bathroom took up the rear end, a reading/lounging/study area occupied the middle, and several pillows and a futon mattress lay on the floor over the front of the Shop.

He pulled a couple of liter bottles of chocolate flavored high-potency protein drink out of the refrigerator and used them to chase the PowerBars, then went over to the desk where he had placed his upstairs computer. He capped the empties and tossed them into the recycle bin, sat down in front of the monitor, placed his left palm on a recognition grid, and said, "Sciapodous. Alkahest. Verecundity."

The screen winked to life, stating:

HELLO, KARL

YOU HAVE NO NEW MESSAGES

_Got that right._

He opened several unorthodox (and in a few cases, classified) search channels, tapped in two names, and waited. Several minutes later, after reading each result, he filtered the information and ran the gleanings back out onto the dummy websites he'd set up.

Fresh bait on the hook.

This accomplished, he sat staring at the screen for a few moments, then called up his personal file folder. He looked at it for an even longer stretch of time, sighed and opened it. He scrolled down to the one labeled 'WW' and clicked it open.

Tabbing to the genealogical section, he added several of Wendy's more remote relatives and ancestors to the list, then activated his search subroutine, scanning the results for a connection he'd felt sure was there.

Nothing. Not even the ghost of a link.

He sighed again, set the computer on standby and rolled the chair back to the opposite wall, leaning his head against it. He sat there for a few minutes, deep in thought, then closed his eyes and shifted into Augmented Recall.

_. . . . . . . The desert night's stillness soaked into one's mind. So quiet, even to his hypersensitive ears. No insects, no birds, and tonight no wind. But he caught the faint crunch of sand under footpads when the approaching fur was yet many meters off, listened to the pattern, felt the minute vibrations transmitted through the ground, matched the estimated weight and the gait against the list in his memory, and allowed himself a tiny smile. He waited, unmoving._

_Phoebe pulled the tent flap aside, standing in silhouette against the muted sunset glow, her tail settling into a light embrace of her lower legs. He looked up into her eyes, noting the mischievous gleam, and asked, "What's on your mind, my lady?"_

_She brought her other paw around to the front, displaying a bottle for his approval. "A little Credon '98 interest you?"_

_His jaw dropped. "How the hell did you get that out here?"_

"_Never underestimate the power of a vixen. Considering how much you appreciated it in Lyon week before last, I thought you might appreciate it now, especially given our somewhat rude accommodations."_

_He grinned. "You read my mind."_

"_Oh, that wasn't necessary. You're an open book to anyfur who's half-awake." She moved toward him then, her well-oiled motions hinting of tremendous control and power. She never had to expend any effort to appear seductive. To him, the raw force of her presence provided seduction aplenty._

_Her scent reached him before she did, lending a pastel wash to his world. Stopping scant centimeters away, she stood still, smiling down at him. He reached out a paw and ran his finger gently down her left leg, tracing outlines of hard muscle under the glossy fur._

_Her voice a low purr, she asked, "Want to pop over to my place? It's a little more . . . comfortable."_

"_Roger."_

"_No, no. I keep telling you, it's 'Phoebe'."_

_He couldn't even slow the grin that parted his muzzle. . . . . . ._

: : stop : :

He fell out of Augment, sagging slightly in the chair, his breathing fast and tattered. Rolling his eyes upward, he rubbed both temples briefly, then sighed once more. "Okay, Boss. What do I do? Even if I did put any credence in reincarnation, Wendy was born well before Phoebe died. But two more identical women I have never heard of, much less met."

He crossed his arms, rocking gently back and forth in the reinforced office chair.

What to do?

Go with the feelings, get to know her, see what develops?

Maintain a friendly distance, if possible?

Or run, not walk, to the nearest airport and get the heck out of Dodge?

What, indeed, to do?

##

The three furs ambled around to the north side of the house. Well, okay, two of them ambled while Emily spun mad gyrations around them. When they got to the corner, she darted ahead and scampered up the copper beech. Perching on a stout limb several meters off the ground, she called out, "Come on up! You gotta see this!"

Wendy whistled. "She went up that trunk mighty fast!"

Cinnamon shrugged. "What do you expect? Half squirrel, half cat. She got balance and the climbing muscles from me, and claws from her father. I've been pulling her off the tops of tall stuff since she was eight months old. She's never fallen yet, and I guess I've gotten sort of blasé about it."

The adults went over to the tree. Wendy jumped and grabbed a low limb, swinging her legs up and over to sit on the limb, then stood and repeated the action three more times until she sat next to Emily.

"Hey, kiddo. What was it you wanted us to see?" She scooted over to allow Cinnamon a section of limb.

"It's up there!" Emily pointed straight up and took off again.

Cinnamon jumped to a nearby limb and resumed climbing, calling back to Wendy, "With her around I don't worry about getting out of shape."

_I can see that. And quite a nice shape it is, too._ Cinnamon's scent still lingered from the embrace, but Wendy was trying not to let it distract her. The vixen followed the pair up to within several meters of the top. The limbs were getting decidedly too thin for her taste, so she was glad when Emily stopped and sat on one, bouncing it up and down like a spring. Wendy and Cinnamon hugged the trunk.

Emily pointed and said, "Lookit!" The adults gazed in the direction indicated, following the small hills as they undulated off into the eastern horizon. The green trees furring the land faded to a soft aqua-blue in the distance, the light haze of summer air filtering the view. A pair of contrails made a wavery pink-and-gold 'X' against the far, silver-gray background of cumulus.

Cinnamon reached over and hugged her daughter. "You're right, honey. It was definitely worth the climb."

They sat and watched until the trails faded away and the sun sank behind the thick bank of clouds on the western horizon, maybe twenty minutes. Wendy found the experience very peaceful, and thought it might be nice to come back up here on at least a semi-regular basis. Then Emily, without preamble, started climbing back down, so the adults followed.

When they were all back on terra firma, Wendy asked, "Anyfurry interested in dessert?"

"Me! Me! Me! Me! Me!" Emily jumped about frantically, waving both arms.

Cinnamon nodded. "Yeah, sure. If for no other reason than to watch Emmy eat. She's always been a good eater."

##

_** 6:15pm **_

Martin's day ended at five-thirty unless they were working on a special project. He was likely halfway through supper by now. Karl put the finishing touches on the carburetor for the two-cycle engine he was rebuilding, placed it in its color-coded box, and filed the box in one of the shelves along the Shop's rear wall. After cleaning up the work area and storing the tools, he went over to a small console under what had been a high, narrow window, before his purchase of the building nearly seven years ago. Along with the rest of its counterparts in the rear three-fourths of the Shop, the window had been boarded over.

He punched in a lengthy passcode on the keypad, whereupon the entire console slid smoothly forward about six centimeters, then dropped straight down half a meter, revealing a small bank of tiny monitors and a double dozen toggles and dials. With movements born of long practice, he flipped or turned most of them, activating his security system, and rendering the unassuming structure practically invulnerable to covert entry.

This was another of Karl's custom jobs. It would have caused the local authorities no end of agitation, had they known of its existence: the system's sophistication was wildly out of proportion with its surroundings, being, as it was, worth several times the entire contents of the Shop.

Those contents of the Shop _above_ ground, anyway.

He walked back through the quiet building, doing the end-of-day checks, and noting the light rain just beginning outside. After assuring himself that all the systems were working properly, he went over to the phone behind the counter and punched in a local number.

He heard four rings, then, "Hello, Grey residence."

"Hey, Sandee, this is Karl. Hope I'm not interrupting dinner."

"Oh, hi, Karl! No, we're done. How's the business going?"

"Can't complain. Wouldn't do any good if I did. Is Alan around?"

"Sure, lemme get him."

Karl listened to the muted background sounds of their large household as he waited. In less than a minute, his pastor's voice came on the line. "Hey, Karl! What can I do for you?"

"If you don't have anything else scheduled, I'd like to have another counseling session this evening."

"A counseling session? _Tonight_?"

"Yes."

"Well! This is a surprise. The last one was over a year ago."

"Four hundred and eight days. I know. Something has come up."

The concern in the big squirrel's voice was obvious. "Work-related? You had contact?"

"No, no. Nothing like that. This is . . . personal."

"I see. You want to meet at the church?"

"I'd prefer your study, if it's all right. It's easier to secure."

"That's fine. Come on over. Will you be here soon?"

"Half an hour, tops."

"I'll look for you."

##

The three femme furs sat around the small table in the kitchen to enjoy the excellent blueberry sorbet Wendy had served.

She pointed her spoon at Cinnamon. "You were working like a dervish."

The squirrel blinked at her. "Huh?"

"Your story," she prompted. "There must be more to tell."

"Good gravy, woman, you are relentless!"

"And you are not finished. Speak on."

Cinnamon cast a sidelong glance at her daughter. She was holding the sorbet cup upside down over her mouth, letting the last few slow drops trickle in. "You 'bout done there, sweetie?"

"Uh-huh." She licked the rim for good measure and placed the cup on the table, dropping the spoon in with a clink. "Can I go play some more?"

Cinnamon smiled at her. "Fine with me. Just don't tear the house down."

"I won't," she called over her shoulder as she scooted out the kitchen door and onto the rear porch.

"Okay. Summer and Fall came and went, I 'worked like a dervish' as you mentioned, and Emily came along in December. So she'll be six in less than five months."

"When's her birthday?"

"The fourteenth."

"Bummer having a birthday so close to Christmas."

Cinnamon grinned. "We adapt. We celebrate half-birthdays."

"What's that?"

"She was five-and-a-half on the fourteenth of June, so we had a party. Then it's not such a let-down to have less than two weeks between her birthday and Christmas."

"That's a cool idea."

"It's not original with me. Friends of mine in school did that, and it sounded good." She shifted around, stretching her legs out in front of her. "Shay made me a baby sling, so I could work while carrying Emily around, even nurse her. She had a small garage apartment they'd never used, so we cleaned it out and Emily and I stayed there. Shay let me pay her whatever I could for rent. Wasn't much most of the time, but I never had to stiff her for it. I puttered along for a couple of years, working the system. Got a motorized wheel so I could throw pots easier, got my own kiln. Landed a couple of decent consignments. Then things started to pick up. My stuff started getting noticed. One of the smaller chain stores in Pennsylvania contracted to carry some standard pieces I'd designed. I sold the production rights for a pretty hefty fee, and for the first time in my life I felt almost comfortable, financially." She'd been toying with the sorbet cup, then hopped up and took it over to the sink. "Hey, Wendy, you want somethin' to drink? I've got a piece of a thirst going here."

"Yeah, sure. Anything out of the fridge. No, hang on, make that a V-8."

Cinnamon pulled two of them from the refrigerator and brought them to the table. "Here ya go." She sat back down, popped the drink open, and took a long swallow. "That's good."

"Where in Pennsylvania was it that you sold your stuff?"

"Mostly around Pittsburgh. Wheeling, Youngstown, couple other places. Little specialty stores called Thrive."

"You're kidding!"

"Why, does that mean something?"

"There's a Thrive store in Butler, where I used to live. I shopped there all the time."

"In the last three years?"

"Yeah."

"Well, you probably saw some of my stuff, then. There were some asymmetrical vases, some bookends, picture frames, that sort of thing."

Wendy thought hard for several seconds. "I bought a vase from Thrive about, oh, a year ago I make it. It was part of a display. Nearly a foot-and-a-half, 'scuse me, I mean a shade under half-a-meter tall. Long, fluted neck, celadon glaze."

"Yep. That sounds like one of mine. You still got it?"

"Come on." Wendy got up and padded out into the South Hall, Cinnamon in her wake. They took the spiral stairs to the Upper Passage, and walked out to the end overlooking the Main Hall. Wendy had placed an ornate three-legged, round-top, oaken table at that end of the Passage. A large, lace doily draped it, set to hang fashionably off-center, and the vase in question sat thereupon, a spray of silk flowers in its mouth.

Cinnamon nodded. "That's one o' mine all right."

Wendy picked up the vase and held it high to look at the bottom. "I don't remember seeing 'Cinnamon' on here anywhere. Nope. Look, it says 'Elbejoco'."

"Right. That's my outfit. The Elvina Beryl Jones Company."

Wendy wrinkled her nose. "That's an . . . unusual name. I like Cinnamon a lot better."

"So do I. But Justin doesn't know that I have anything to do with Elbejoco."

Wendy set the vase back down and turned to her. "Justin? How does he figure in? I thought you said he took a powder."

"He did. But he came back."

"Do tell."

"Yep. Sometimes, when I'd do an out-of-town show, I'd take Emily with me, sometimes I'd leave her with Shay and Norm. They never had any kids of their own. She's a badger, and he's a loris-rabbit mix, so there never was much chance."

"Hunh. Where's he from?"

"Malaysia. His dad was British, worked for an oil company and traveled a lot. Met a local girl and decided to settle down. When Norm was in his – early teens, I think – they had to leave. Lots of anti-foreign sentiment, _partic'lar_ where marriage was concerned."

Wendy recalled her conversation with Martin about the trouble in Ireland and sighed. "I sometimes wonder if we'll ever just learn to get along."

"I don't hold out much hope. We haven't had a single decade in recorded history without at least one major war somewhere, and that's not even mentioning the two-bit tyrants in funny hats that run a dozen of the third-world countries." She sent Wendy half-a-grin. "You're about to tell me I got off the topic again, aren't you?"

"Heh. No. Well, it hadn't occurred to me yet, but you're right."

"Okay. Norm and Shay didn't have any kids. I said that, didn't I? Whatever. They were okay with that, but they both doted on Emily, and jumped at the chance to look after her." She grinned. "Even more after she was toilet-trained."

"Yuck."

"Right. Say, speaking of Emily, you wanna head back downstairs? I haven't heard her for a few minutes, and it gets me antsy."

"Sure. Sabrina has one like that. She's three and they can't take their eyes off her for twenty seconds." They headed for the stairs.

"Who's Sabrina?"

Wendy glanced back over her shoulder. "Old friend of mine from Pennsylvania. She married my college sweetheart."

Cinnamon raised an eyebrow. "And she's a _friend_?"

They reached the staircase. "Yeah. A _good_ friend." She gave the squirrel a contemplative look. "It's part of the backstory. I'll have to let you read it sometime. It's very entertaining, even for those of us who were involved."

"Sounds good. Can I get it on the web?"

"Oh, sure, just look up the 'Foxx Den'." She stopped halfway down the stair, her vision momentarily refocused to a far-removed point. "He's the guy that . . . that got me started."

"Cool. Can I find that with Google?"

Wendy said nothing for a second, then gave herself a little shake. "I would think so."

"Great. I'll do that."

They resumed walking, got to the bottom of the stairs and turned toward the kitchen. Wendy prompted her again. "So Justin came back and . . ."

"Right, sorry. He showed up at the house one weekend when I was out of town. To shorten the story considerably, he tried to sweet-talk Shay into letting him take Emily for a ride 'to see her grandparents'. When that didn't work he got ugly and threatened her. But Norm's a Federal air marshal, and has a gun on him most of the time. He convinced Justin that leaving would be a better idea than staying."

"Heh. Good for him."

"My sentiments, exactly."

"How old was Emily at the time?"

"We'd just celebrated her two-and-a-half birthday. It was the weekend before the Fourth, the last weekend in June."

Wendy frowned. "Hmh. Looks like three years didn't do much for his disposition."

"Oh, but it did. It made it worse. After that he started stalking us. He'd just 'turn up' wherever I happened to be, and either threaten to have the Department of Child Services take Emily, or threaten to go to court and have custody transferred to him. I never took him seriously, and I never did figure out what his problem was. I guess he wasn't all there."

Wendy dimpled noticeably. "Squirrel food, huh?"

Cinnamon winced. "Don't _even_ go there."

They noticed that the sky was darkening out the South Hall windows as they walked back to the kitchen. "Looks like we're about to get some rain, Wendy."

"Yep. I know the farmers need it, but I _do_ wish it would hold off until the roofers finish the job. What's left of the old one leaks like mad."

They spotted Emily playing in the trees behind the house when they got to the kitchen, so they returned to their seats at the table. Cinnamon resumed her narrative. "Anyway, it was along about then I started with my Virtual Sculptures. I was spending all my time programming them, and Justin _would_ _not_ leave me alone. I got tired of it and . . ."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa! Virtual Sculptures? That's _**you?"**_

"Guilty as charged."

"_You _started Virtual Sculptures? By_ yourself?"_

"No, not really by myself. I had some help getting started with the really heavy-duty programming, and even more with the table. I didn't know that much about holography. Picked it up pretty quick, though."

"But that's a huge business! Every rich dude in the country wants one! You must be worth millions!"

"The **company **is worth millions. I sold out too early. I get a check each month for a teeny-tiny little percentage of the net profit. Yeah, my name is on the original paperwork, but the angel investors and AverCom are the real owners." She got a sheepish look on her face as she admitted, "I never really thought it would get as big as it did. Guess that was kinda dumb, huh?"

"Dumb, no. Sad, yes. You deserve better."

"Enhhhh. My fault for not being patient. Still, I get by. I'll design a piece for them a few times a year, and they always buy 'em. Pay pretty well, too. I can't complain."

"Girl, all I'm saying is, I've missed enough opportunities in my life to know what it feels like. I just think it's too bad is all."

Cinnamon waved it off. "Whatever. Anyway, Justin was being a royal pain in the blindcheeks, so I took out a restraining order on him along about the end of August. He stayed away after the first time the cops showed up, for about two weeks. Then one night when Norm was working and Shay had a late class, he broke into the house. See, I was staying at their place that night because there was a Johnny Depp movie marathon on the dish, and they had a two-meter, high-res flat-screen."

"Nice."

"It was. I was into it, Emily was asleep upstairs, it was about nine o'clock or so. Shay was planning to do some shopping after class, so I didn't expect her home 'til eleven anyhow. And Justin takes a crowbar to the back door. Just popped it right open, and stupid me, I hadn't turned on the alarm. He came storming in, demanding 'his child' as he put it, waving the crowbar around. It was pretty obvious that he was drunk. We had us a yelling match, and Emily woke up and started crying. He headed toward the stairs."

She paused to take a drink, swished the liquid around a couple of times before swallowing, then gave Wendy a determined look. "You've been a mother, so you'll understand my reluctance to comply with his wishes."

"I'll bet. What'd you do?"

"They have a fireplace, complete with all the tools. I reached over and grabbed the poker and told him to get out of the house."

"Whoa," said Wendy, and she thought. "_Déjà vu_."

"He pretty much ignored me, and ran up the stairs. I ran after him. He found Emily and was bending over to pick her up, and I clobbered his leg with the poker. He yelled again and took a swing at me with the crowbar. I backed out into the hall and he came after me. It's a good thing he was drunk, or I might not be sittin' here tellin' you this. He tried to hit me a few more times, but couldn't connect. He finally backed me into a corner and drew back to let me have it, and I stuck him in the gut with the poker."

"Ouch."

"That's pretty much what he thought. He hit the floor and curled up in a ball. I ran back to the bedroom and got Emily. Ran down to the car and took off."

"That your car or Shay's?"

"Mine. Just an old clunker, but it got me around. I drove over to the student center at the University. Shay's house was pretty close, just off Walton Avenue. It was maybe a mile as the crow flies."

"Don't you mean a klick-and-a-half?"

"Don't get smart with me, woman. I called the cops when I got there and told 'em what happened. When they got to the house, there was a blood trail from the upstairs hall down to the street. I guess he'd parked there. They looked high and low for the sorry bugger, but never found him. Anyway, shortly after that's when we all decided it would be best for me to just disappear."

"Oh." Wendy thought it over for a few seconds. "How did you come to choose this place?"

"Shay had some old, old friends of the family that lived here. They offered to let me stay with them 'til I got on my feet." She tipped the drink back and polished it off, then set the empty back on the table. "Real nice family. He's pastor at Mercy Chapel."

"Izzat right?"

"Yep. Got a big ol' farmhouse for their big ol' family. They have six kids, but they made room for the two of us. We lived with 'em for better than a year, 'til I could find a place to rent."

"And you never got on each other's nerves?"

"Not usually. The kids are fairly well-behaved, and his two oldest are girls, and were a big help. They were fourteen and sixteen when we moved in, and they practically fought each other for the chance to take care of Emily. It was kinda sweet."

Wendy smiled at the mental picture. "So, where do you live now?"

"Off Pearson Road, down toward Weybridge. Got a little three-room cabin at the back of Mr. Smathers' spread. It's quiet, you can't see it from the road, and there's a barn close by that's three times the size of the cabin. That's where I keep my kiln and stuff. You ought to come see it. It's really a pretty spot."

Emily came running in and shook water off her fur. "It's rainin' too much out there, Mom!"

"Oh, you silly thing! You're sopping wet." She turned to Wendy. "I'm sorry, but do you have a towel? Or two?"

"Sure. Follow me." And she led them upstairs to one of the unused suites, Emily leaving a trail of wet footprints in their wake.

##


	19. Chapter 7 Relations Part D

_**Chapter 7 - Relations - Part D**_

##

_** Thursday 04 August 2016, 7:00pm**_

Pastor Grey opened the door after Karl got his umbrella closed, but before he had time to knock. "Hey, brother. Told you I'd be watching." He greeted the huge wolverine with a short but fierce hug. Although Alan Grey was tall, especially for a squirrel, his head didn't reach Karl's chin. "Come on back to the study. You got your stuff with you?"

"Right here." Karl patted a slim, soft-side case strapped to his hip, as he followed his friend into the house.

"Great. You want some coffee?"

"Please." He grinned a little. "Not that it will make any difference for me, but you might need it. This is apt to take a while."

Alan grimaced slightly. "Got a lot on your mind, brother?"

"Oh, yeah."

They reached Rev. Grey's inner sanctum, a room about four-by-five meters in the center of the house. It had no windows or outside walls. Alan indicated the room, and said, "You get set up and I'll go get the coffee. How about some oatmeal cookies to go with it?"

"Sandee make 'em?"

"Sure did."

"Bring 'em on."

"Okay, I'll be back in a minute." He continued down the hall to the kitchen.

Karl went to the desk and opened his fanny-pack, extracting sixteen small, spherical objects wired together in eight pairs, and a palm-sized master unit. He took a couple of minutes to attach a pair of the spheres into each upper and lower corner of the room, then switched on the control, unfolding it to full width, and calibrated it to the enclosed space. It was only seconds later that Alan returned, pushing a teacart. "She had this all set up for us. Can you believe that?"

"Thoughtful of her." Karl closed the door and locked it. He sat down in one of the (fortunately) large leather chairs by the desk, took the control box onto his lap, and started tuning up the system.

The squirrel poured the coffee. "You take it black, yes?"

"Right." Karl watched the tandem displays on the unit, adjusting phases until they matched, then asked, "You ready?"

"Go ahead."

Very slowly, Karl turned a red knob on the right side of the device. A low hum sounded from each of the spheres, but gradually died away. A faint, violet glow became just barely detectable around each sphere, turning more bluish as the fields expanded toward each other. In less than half a minute, the dimly radiant planes covered walls, floor, and ceiling, and the room was proof against any known form of remote surveillance. To even the most sensitive instruments, its confines constituted a dead zone.

Alan reached a paw over and pressed on the softly glowing wall of quasi-energy, feeling it give ever so slightly. He snickered. "Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."

"That's what they say."

"Sometimes I think you have too much fun with your little toys, Karl."

"Please believe me when I say I'd rather not have to use them."

Alan waved a paw. "Oh, I know." He put both elbows on the desk, clasped his fingers together and rested his chin on them. "Nothing connected with that you really care to dwell on, is there?"

"I don't think I'd put it quite that way," he said. "There are any number of pleasant memories, and even more that might be termed constructive. The difficulty is that they are so heavily _outweighed_ by the horrid stuff."

"Hmmm. That what got your attention lately?"

"Not really, no. The real problem is going to take some explanation."

"Well I guess we ought to get started, then."

They both bowed their heads as Pastor Grey asked the Lord's blessing and guidance on their conversation.

"And where shall we begin, Karl?"

"At the beginning. Specifically, with Phoebe."

An expression of concern came to rest on the pastor's face. "Did that old dream come back last night?"

"No. It walked into my shop last month."

". . . How's that, again?"

He leaned back in the chair (which hardly creaked under his weight) and stared at the ceiling, following the rhythmic motion of waveforms in the plane of cool energy. "Have you met Wendy Wylde? She moved into Julian's place. She's his niece."

"Moved into Julian's . . . Oh! No, I haven't met her exactly. I caught a glimpse of her at the bake sale, as she was leaving. Pretty vixen, quite petite? She _is_ the one who left those incredible cookies, isn't she? Ash Creek Catering?"

"That's her."

"What about her?"

"Before he died, Julian set up a perpetual account at the shop to take care of her maintenance needs at Ash Creek. She came by the shop to drop off some things for repair, and when she first turned around . . . when I first caught sight of her face . . . it was Phoebe."

"Huhn. So she looks like Phoebe?"

"No. She _is_ Phoebe. If Phoebe had been an identical twin, she couldn't have been more like her. She talks the same, moves the same. She has the same sense of humor, the same aptitude for puns, the same turns of phrase, the same bull-headed approach to her projects." He paused for a moment, still not meeting Alan's eyes. "Heaven help me, she even smells like her."

"My word. That's most unusual. _Are_ they related?"

"Not in the slightest. Phoebe was an only child, as you know, and both her parents were only children. I did some checking on Wendy, but couldn't find squat for a connection. Lots of interesting tidbits. I spent one hundred and forty-nine hours over the past four weeks researching her background, and I've got a pretty complete bio built up now."

Alan's eyebrows climbed high._ A hundred and forty-nine hours! Holy moly! _

Karl continued, "Turns out she's a health nut. Karate, kick-boxing, that sort of thing. She's actually a good bit older than she smells."

"Big deal. So are you."

"But not for the same reasons. Anyway, aside from that it looks like she's had a pretty steady run of bad luck most of her life."

"Like what?"

"She had a younger brother who died in a car accident when he was five. Her father died when she was eleven, and her mother a dozen years later, both fairly young, both of what may be termed 'natural causes'. Had a marriage that failed. Her ex-husband was abusive. Lost an infant child to SIDS."

Rev. Grey frowned. "You've been hacking again."

"No, not really. All this stuff is on public record." Karl favored his friend with a small grin. "I'm just unnaturally good at remote information retrieval."

"Yes, I know that. But it sounds as if you've been poking that long nose into some pretty private areas."

"Well . . . maybe. But I had to know."

"So now you do. What do you plan to do about it?"

"That's why I'm here." He shifted in the chair, switched headrest paws, and fixed his gaze upon a spot on Alan's desk. "You know, I loved Phoebe about as much as someone in my position _could_ love a woman. I came within a hair of getting her to marry me a couple of times, and might have eventually talked her into it, had she lived. We were as near a thing to soul mates as I've ever heard of. When she died I went nuts for a little while, and all that kept me going was my lust for revenge."

"But then you came here."

"Yeah. And up until the seventh of last month I thought I'd done a fair job of putting it all behind me."

The pastor chuckled. "Heaven knows you keep busy enough. Surrogate father to half the kids in the congregation. Running your shop. Training Martin." He cocked his head sideways, giving Karl a steady look. "Tracking down former terrorists."

"If there is such thing as a 'former' terrorist, I've never met him."

"And yet you are a 'former' assassin."

Karl threw up both paws and grinned. "Please! 'Covert Operative' if you don't mind."

"Semantics." He picked up a cube of sticky-notes from his desk and began idly flopping it back and forth. "My point is, you should know better than most that anyfur can be redeemed. No one is beyond God's reach."

"I stand corrected. Nevertheless, I have never met such a fur." He straightened up and leaned forward. "And we've scampered a ways down a rabbit-trail."

"Yes, you're right. I'm sorry. You want to know what to do about Ms. Wylde."

"That's it." He paused for a second to consider his words. "Alan, I think about her constantly. She is never far from the top layer of thought. Now, don't take that too far, I don't know that I would classify myself as obsessed, exactly."

"You put a hundred and fifty hours into picking apart her background, and that's _not_ obsessed? What, pray tell, does it take to qualify?"

Karl's expression got a little defensive. "Well, I haven't missed any meals. I haven't lost . . . well, much sleep. Not recently. I could hardly sleep at all that first night after we met, but it's much better now. It doesn't interfere with my workload."

"Uh-huh. Well, let's grade the ground and see what we can build. Is she a Christian?"

"I don't believe so. She has no official church affiliation, and some other items in her background lead me to believe that she has, if anything, an antagonistic relationship with God."

"Hmm." He tore off the top sheet from the cube and started absently folding it. "Not a very auspicious start."

"Right. That's another thing I wanted to discuss. See, if I knew she had a positive relationship with God, or even a positive image of Him, I'd have expressed my interest to her already."

"Oh, yes? So you've changed your mind, then?"

"Changed my mind about what?"

"About getting romantically involved with anyone. Seems to me I recall you saying you didn't want to . . . what was that phrase? Ah, yes, 'inflict your history' on any woman."

". . . . . Yes, I did say that. Three years ago. But, Alan, I'm officially dead. The casefile was closed in twenty-fourteen."

"Yes, you told me that at the time. You were also skeptical about the accuracy of your information."

"I've rectified that: now they aren't even looking for any evidence concerning my disappearance."

"So you think it's over?"

"I do. And if I may be so bold, you told me I should let the dead past rest and get on with my life."

Alan's face curled into a wry smile. "May I assume that's a direct quote?"

"You know I don't paraphrase unless the situation warrants it."

Alan finished the tiny box he'd been folding and let it drop to the desk. "You're just about done paying the money back, too, aren't you?"

"Right. One more 'deposit' later this month."

"And they've never caught on? Never noticed?"

"No." There was no hesitation in his answer.

The pastor expressed his incredulity in the slight shake of his head. "Unbelievable."

Karl hitched forward in his chair. "So. About Wendy. . ."

"Yes. But I do have one other point." Both his face and his voice revealed his concern. "Don't you think her resemblance to Phoebe would pose a problem in an intimate relationship?"

Karl didn't answer for a few seconds, then said, "That's . . . a possibility. It would be something I'd have to work around. I know that Wendy is her own furson. She isn't some kind of doppelganger. And I wouldn't be approaching her as a 'replacement' for Phoebe. No one could do that. But she has many, yea, practically all of the same traits that initially drew me to Phoebe, and they still seem to have that effect."

"So you're seriously considering missionary dating?"

Karl grimaced. "I have a _most_ marked aversion to that terminology."

Rev. Grey gave him an amused look. "It's pithy, descriptive, and accurate," he observed. "To what could you object?"

"To the fact that it hits so close to home."

"Hah! Well I like that!" Alan chuckled a few times, and then held his paw out to Karl. "Brother, you are a couple of orders of magnitude smarter than I am. You've accomplished scientific breakthroughs during your career that most folks haven't even imagined, and been involved in more classified stuff than any other ten furs living. But you also seem to have packed your sense of judgment off on holiday."

Karl took his friend's paw, and after a moment began to nod slowly. "Yeah. Maybe. As Martin is fond of saying, wisdom isn't the same as intelligence. And all my experience with women dates back to my pre-Christian era." He looked up at the pastor and grinned. "But I did have enough presence of mind to come over and talk to you about it. Do I get partial credit?"

"Aw, sure, why not."

"So, you'll help me?"

"Well," he mused, drumming the fingers of his other paw on the desk, "Since I get the feeling that you're going to be pursuing this course whatever I say . . ." and here he couldn't quite keep his face straight, "I guess so. Let's see what we can come up with . . . ."

##

_** Friday 05 August 2016, noon **_

The last few lunch dishes were safely tucked into the washer, the counters again spotless, the ovens occupied making their thrice-weekly batch of cookies. Wendy had supplied a generous snack for the roofing crew, for which they offered her their heartfelt thanks. As Mr. Fisher had explained during his visit earlier in the week, they would be short-pawed for a bit until the company could recover from the "incident" with Mr. Cottrell. Three of his eight employees had quit on the spot when they learned what had happened to Chase.

"I feel so bad for the Whisk family," he'd said. "Pam's story was in papers as far away as Boston. I don't blame Owen at all for wanting to move his family. I'd probably end up in Australia if something like that happened to me."

Wendy sympathized with his position.

The delinquent coyote had yet to resurface. Nancy, as it turned out, was his fiancée, as were three other (decidedly less violent) women from Vermont, Massachusetts, and upstate New York. The police had discovered this upon searching his house, and had passed the information on to Mr. Fisher.

Wendy had also learned, to her dismay, that rather than making a tidy sum on the roof, she was going to be out some thirty thousand dollars. Mr. Fisher was giving her the metal roof at cost, not taking a dime for himself, but that also meant no overtime, and fitting in the work on Ash Creek Manor when they could. He was still optimistic that, even with this undesirable schedule, they would be finished before the first snowfall.

She'd retreated to her office with a cup of coffee for a few minutes of doing absolutely nothing before starting on the wiring for the northeast quadrant. As she put the cup down after her first sip, the phone rang.

_Damn. I don't want to talk to anyfurry now._

It rang again. She leaned over and looked at the CID. It said 'FIXIT SHOP'.

_Well, now, that's different._ She picked up the phone and cradled it on her shoulder, giving the caller her best, most musical, "Hello?"

"Oh! Um. Good afternoon, Ms. Wylde. This is Karl Luscus. Do you have a minute?"

"Sure!" she responded brightly.

"Well. Um, see we're having . . . that is, tomorrow night, or evening, rather, there's a sort of a kind of drop-in social, over at the church. And I was wondering if, um, you'd, well, be . . . interested in going."

She stared at the phone, nonplussed. His voice actually sounded _nervous_. "A what?"

"An ice-cream social."

"What, kind of like a party?"

"Ah . . . well, it's probably going to be a little more sedate than what you're . . . what you'd typically consider a party. Just whoever wants to show up, really." He cleared his throat.

He is nervous! This is weird. What's he up to?

When she didn't say anything, he jumped back in. "It's really informal. And I thought, since you're new to the community, you might want to meet some of the local furs in a more . . . relaxed venue?"

_This is the oddest invitation to a date I've ever received._ "Where is it gonna be?"

"At the church. Under that big maple beside the church, really. They'll have tables for the food. And we usually bring blankets to spread on the ground."

"Well, as long as it isn't actually inside the church," she teased. "I'd be afraid the walls would collapse on me."

"Huh?"

"Oh, you know. Wrath of God stuff."

His confusion telegraphed distinctly. "But God doesn't work that way."

"If you say so. Listen, is there gonna be any preaching or Bible stuff or things like that? Because if there is, you can include me out."

"It's just a get-together. An excuse to kick back and have fun and visit with friends. That's all." He paused for a second, then said. "If you want preaching you'll have to come on Sunday. If you want Bible study, make it Thursday night. For your purposes, Saturdays are safe."

"Hmmm. What time is it?"

"Starts at four-thirty." When she didn't respond after several seconds, he continued, "I didn't mean to pressure you, Ms. Wylde, I simply thought you might enjoy it. But if not, I won't take up any more of your time."

"Wendy."

"Excuse me?"

"You keep calling me 'Ms. Wylde'. My name is Wendy. I told you that before."

". . . . Yes, you did."

"Can you use it, then?"

"Yes, Wendy."

She found herself oddly happy with the way her name sounded on his tongue. "Right. That's much better. Do you think you can remember to use it in the future?"

His reply was low and sincere. "I think that would be an exceedingly easy thing to remember."

_Well. That certainly didn't sound nervous._ "Okay."

". . . Okay, what?"

"I'll come."

"Oh! Great! Um, I mean, that's good. We'll . . . look forward to seeing you there." His nervousness had evidently returned. "I'm sure you have a lot to do, so I won't keep you."

"That's fine," she said. "See you tomorrow, then?"

"Yes. You will."

End of Chapter Seven


	20. Chapter 8 Disclosures Part A

**_Chapter Eight - Disclosures_**

**Never test the depth of the water with both feet.**

##

**Every saint has a past and every sinner a future.  
****-Oscar Wilde**

##

_** Saturday 13 August 2016, 10:20am **_

"Ooooookay. Let's see." Wendy checked down the short list:

In fanny pack -

_mosquito repellent_

_first aid kit_

_multi-tool_

_fishing line & hooks_

_map of the property_

_sketch pad_

_binoculars_

"Got my whistle. Got pepper spray. Got a machete. Got lunch." She looked with approval into her lunch sack: a large baked-brie-and-roasted-garlic sandwich on pumpernickel, two of her appetizer-sized pork & plum sausage rolls, and an apple tart. Hey, just because you're traipsing off into the wild doesn't mean you can't eat well.

_Right. We'll see what we've really got here. See if Harry's idea about a horse trail has any merit._

She swung the strap of the lunch bag around her neck, then stepped out the back door to draw in a long breath of the sweet air. The sun, having already burned off the dew, shone down at her from a morning sky swept clear of clouds, and there was a good breeze out of the north. She looked off in that direction. The property ran only about a hundred meters the other side of the road to the west, but extended for almost a kilometer to the south and east, and more than two to the north. Ash Creek neatly bisected it, meandering generally southeast to northwest, and coming within a hundred sixty meters of the rear of the house at one point. She'd decided to scope out the northern half of the land today, so she set off toward the creek, intending to follow it to the boundary marker.

_Good day for a walk. Nice and cool, 'specially for August._

Finding the creek was not a problem. It could _just_ be heard when standing behind the house, assuming the birds didn't interrupt. Besides, a trail of sorts led off in that direction. And she hoped to run across the old gazebo and the wrought-iron lawn furniture she and Quinn had talked about. The trail was unkempt, but easily followed, as long as she was careful to keep the underbrush from smacking her in the face (that was _one_ of the reasons she was taking the machete). She followed the gently winding path to a cleared spot a couple hundred meters away on the bank of the creek.

And there it was. She gave forth a deep, exasperated _huff_. The gazebo roof had caved in on one side, exposing a skeleton of rafters, and half the railing had fallen away. Not one of the wrought iron chairs was to be seen, and only two of the benches. One of these lay in two approximately equal pieces, one atop the other, but the remaining bench still stood firm, facing the water.

Lousy vandals.

Wendy walked slowly over to the seat and rubbed her paw along one armrest, noting what little was left of the white paint that had covered it once. She sat down in it and admired the view, her arm along the back of the bench, her tail stuck through the long slot provided for that purpose.

Ash Creek was quite shallow at this point and perhaps twenty-five or thirty meters wide, actually forming two, three, or four separate streams in places. The water rushed over and around the smooth stones and rock ledges that made up the creek bed, making small leaps and splashes, and murmuring constantly. A few meters up the bank a willow trailed several branch tips in the water, while dragonflies bejeweled the air above the ripples. Several ashes shaded the bench, along with one immense maple, whose limbs, she estimated, spanned at least twenty-five meters. It was comfortable there, even a bit cool, very comfortable and very pretty. After a few minutes she sighed to herself and got up to continue her walk.

_I'd love to get the gazebo fixed. This would be a perfect place to set up a barbecue._

The land along the creek was fairly rough from that point on, but she didn't run across anything she couldn't negotiate. The machete got a good workout.

The land displayed its beauty in every direction. Although no horticultural whiz kid, she did recognize a lot of the trees, and knew from talking to the locals which ones would really strut their stuff come autumn. Sugar maples were always the main attraction, with their glorious array of golds and reds and oranges. They would be backed up and contrasted by the pale-to-bright yellows of poplars and birches, the varied browns and tans of oak, the metallic sheen of those gorgeous copper beeches, and of course the purplish-brown of ash. A sprinkling of conifers of one type or another would complete the scene. She had never been here in the fall before, so had never seen it for herself, and she looked forward to the color with some anticipation.

The land got steeper in a few places, goodly expanses of rock jutting up in the creek here and there. One of these created a very nice little waterfall, about four meters high, where the creek had cut a pair of narrow channels in the limestone. These were of approximately equal width, some three meters or so, and separated by a couple of meters of stone. The bare rock extended from each side of the stream for five or six meters, and Wendy couldn't resist walking out onto the smooth, table-like surface, wandering over to stand beside the near stream. Even though it was still only mid-morning, the sun had warmed the shelf well, and she luxuriated in its silky-smooth feel under her toes. For a time she watched the crystal liquid race by, then sat down on the edge, running her paws slowly over the water-polished rim of the miniature canyon. She laid her tail out flat behind her. The contrast of the heated stone beneath and the stiff, cool breeze ruffling the upper fur sent chills of delight along her spine, lifting her headfur briefly. After another couple of minutes she extended one leg to reach over and dip her foot in the freshet.

**EEP!** Cold! Reflex jerked her foot back out.

Having been abruptly evicted from her woolgathering, she shook the water off and resumed her course along the stream bank.

After another twenty-five minutes of whacking her way through brambles and briars, Wendy came to the old stone marker that delineated the northernmost corner of the property. She was tired, and sweaty, and more than a little disgusted. Horse trail, indeed! Maybe one could be bulldozed, but nothing short of that would do the trick. Not in this part of the parcel, anyway.

She looked around for a convenient place to lay out her lunch, and spotted a large rock next to the brook several meters downstream. It was off her property, but the land around the creek was completely undeveloped for most of the rest of its length until it joined Little Otter Creek a few kilometers away. It wasn't as if she were in someone's back yard. She worked her way over to the rock.

But when she got there, a movement caught her eye. Something flipped out over the water and landed silently, only to be drawn back. The second time it went by she recognized it as a fly-fishing rig. Her father had been something of a fly-fisher.

_. . . . . . . Since Wendy had never evinced any interest in that activity, it surprised her when Dad invited her along that fall when she was nine-and-a-half. Mom gave her a packed cooler and shooed them both out of the house, anticipating with some relish both a quiet day to herself and a bridge party that evening. Wendy followed her dad doubtfully out to the car, noting the camping gear in the back seat._

_The drive had been long, but enjoyable. In her mind, any time she could get off alone with her father was time well-spent. They chatted about anything and everything, and he eventually brought the topic around to fishing, giving her a little insight on the subtleties of the craft. He tied his own flies, having learned how from his maternal grandfather, who lived for the sport. The old fox had maintained that no other pastime gave its practitioners such an excellent chance to use their skills while at the same time affording ample opportunity for meditation. Dad had taken his counsel seriously to heart._

_He pulled a small tackle-box out from between the seats, set it down between them, and proudly opened it so she could review its contents. She'd expressed to him her opinion that the tied flies looked gross. He'd thought that monumentally funny. . . . . ._

A jay screamed as it flew just overhead, jarring her out of her reverie. She looked back toward the water. The creek pulled a dog-leg bend around the point of land where her lunch-rock stood, and the fly-caster was out of sight behind the heavy brush. But there was a large dead tree resting half-out-half-over the water that looked promising as a vantage point. She went over to it and eased out along the trunk until she could see the fur doing the fishing.

_Holy cats! It's Karl!_

At that moment, for some obscure reason, she got a galloping case of 'shy'. She really didn't want him to see her there. It wasn't that she wanted to leave. Far from it. She just didn't want him to think she was spying on him, despite that being exactly what she _was_ doing.

He had been on her mind a great deal these last several days. She'd decided that she was yet a loooong way from figuring him out, in any respect. He was so utterly, fantastically competent about so many things, his normal conversation precise to an unsettling degree, but he had gotten as tongue-tied as a schoolboy when he invited her to that get-together at his church. That left her guessing about his intentions, but she got the definite feeling that it was _not_ some kind of head game. That he was in some way struggling with unfamiliar territory himself. This, plus the fact that they'd had no communication since last Saturday, both fascinated and frustrated her.

Wendy moved out another half-meter or so along the dead trunk, the better to see around a stand of cattail, when the tree shifted under her. She gave a small _yip_ as the end of the trunk dipped into the swift current. Upon touching the water, the entire tree swiveled around the point where it rested on the bank. In a matter of seconds it had aligned itself with the stream and plopped off into it, with Wendy its passenger. The trunk immediately spun over, dunking her. She lost her grip on the wood and the swiftly curling water pulled her under.

Now, Wendy was a fur of many talents, but swimming was not one of them. And although the water wasn't especially deep, it was very fast, and freezing cold, and burdened as she was by her pack and the various other items she was carrying, she couldn't find a purchase for her feet. She bobbed up, spluttering, only to flop back under.

Again.

Once more.

The fourth time she broke the surface she fetched up sharp against something, and was hauled bodily out of the stream. She shook the water out of her eyes and looked up at her rescuer.

Karl regarded her calmly, fishing pole in his right paw, a good portion of the back of her shirt in his left. As she hung there a few centimeters above the water, rivulets pouring back into the creek from her fur, she was heartily sorry she had even noticed him fishing, and sorrier still for trying to spy on him. She hoped he wouldn't ask her about that. Notwithstanding the cold of the water soaking her, she blushed bright red under her fur.

"Now, what I'd really like to know," he said, vainly attempting to suppress a grin, "is how I'm supposed to catch any trout if you're going to scare them all away splashing like a kid who's discovered Spring's first mud puddle."

"Oh, geez, K-k-karl, I'm s-s-sorry!" Her teeth chattered and she hugged herself. She was beginning to shiver.

His grin got wider. "Hey, not a problem." She yelped when he tossed her lightly up half a meter or so in order to catch her in a more comfortable grip. She ended up sort of sitting in the crook of his arm.

_Dam-NATION, he's strong!_

He walked smoothly over toward dry land, where Wendy could see that he had a fire going. Stepping out onto the bank in one sinuous motion, he carefully deposited her on a large log next to the fire pit, and doffed his fishing gear.

Despite the sun's late-morning warmth, the steady northerly breeze was chilly, and Wendy still shivered, which fact did not escape Karl. He walked the few steps to his vehicle and returned with a light but very large blanket for the sodden vixen.

"Here you are, m'lady."

"Th-thanks." After divesting herself of her various paraphernalia, she quickly wrapped up. _I'll bet I look bloody awful._

She sneezed then, and Karl studied her more closely. "You know, it really isn't good for your system to go from overheated to hypothermia that quickly, regardless of what the Swedish think."

"Wh-what d-d-do you m-mean, overhe-heated?"

"All that whacking away at the ground cover had to have raised a good sweat. At least, I assume that's what you were doing. That's what it sounded like."

_Oh, hell, he heard me!_ "Ye-yeah, I w-was looking over th-the p-property."

"So then you decided to take a dip?" He raised an eyebrow. "Odd get-up for swimming."

"I d-didn't d-do it on p-purpose!"

"No, I suppose you didn't at that. If you had _planned_ on getting dunked, you would have used a waterproof lunch bag." He held out the thoroughly soaked container.

Wendy's eyes widened. "Oh, n-no!" She took it and opened it. The sausage rolls were in a small plastic bag and had survived intact, but she'd wrapped the sandwich and the tart in waxed paper. Soggy scraps were all that remained of most of her meal.

_Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. Damn. . . . . ._

Karl could surmise from her disgusted expression that now was not the time for a lecture on preparedness. Instead, he offered to share his lunch with her.

"Oh, I couldn't t-take your f-food! I'll just eat when I get b-back to the house."

He held up his fingers and ticked them off as he ran down his list. "Number one, not even mentioning the fish, I brought lots of food with me. I always do. Number two, you are in no condition to walk back home, particularly on an empty stomach, and so I insist on giving you a ride. Number three," his pause was accompanied by a warm smile, "number three, I'd very much enjoy your company. Won't you please stay?"

She blinked at him several times. That was _hardly_ what she had expected him to say.

"O-k-k-k-kay." She clamped her muzzle shut to stop the chattering and scooted closer to the fire.

"Excellent! We can fire up the skillet and I'll get the fish cleaned." He walked a few paces away and snagged the creel he'd been using. Wendy could tell, just by the way it dangled from his paw, that it had some heft. Then he picked up a canvas pack he had leaning against one of the large rocks and pulled from it the biggest iron skillet she'd ever seen, bringing it back to the fire. He poured a small measure of canola oil into the huge thing and set it directly on the coals to heat.

From his pack he removed a folding cutting board and set it up beside the fire. Then he took out a long boning knife and a sturdy carving knife, and Wendy's muzzle dropped open as she was treated to a spectacle that would put a seasoned hibachi chef to shame. His paws flashing, Karl had the four fish (the smallest of which was close to half a kilogram) cleaned and filleted in less than ninety seconds. Then he performed a similar feat with a sweet, yellow onion, and scooped the resulting slivers into the pan. The promising aroma of sautéing onion filled the air. Wendy clapped her paws in delight, causing the blanket to slip off her shoulders, then she shivered again.

"Would you like something dry to put on? Then I could prop your clothes up on a frame by the fire, and you'd be dryer quicker."

"Y-y-y-yeah. G-g-g-great." From her long braid, water ran down her back in a steady trickle.

He went back to his . . . _what the heck is that thing, anyway?_ . . . his vehicle, and rummaged in the back for something to dress her in. Wendy, having finally noticed the odd conveyance, examined it.

A boxy affair it was, rounded corners notwithstanding, and apparently clad in matt-brushed stainless steel, the undercarriage standing a good sixty or seventy centimeters off the ground on huge tires. It had six of them, three per side, evenly spaced, and completely outboard of the thing's body. A gull-wing-style door sat above each wheel, and a spacious storage compartment hung off the rear. She'd never seen its like.

Catching his eye as he returned with a folding metal frame and her temporary duds, she said, "N-n-nice little t-t-tank you got there."

"You like it? The local Studebaker dealership was having a clearance sale, and I just couldn't pass it up." He tossed her a light khaki shorts-and-shirt set from which she could have fashioned a serviceable hammock. "Sorry I didn't bring anything in your size. I hadn't anticipated the meeting." She accepted his offering with a weak smile. He continued, "Particularly after last Saturday."

"Huh?"

"You know. The church social."

"What ab-b-b-bout it?" She ducked under the blanket and started shucking out of her wet things.

He shrugged, then knelt by the pan to stir the onions. "Just that I never got a chance to apologize for asking you to come. You left before I could."

Her voice, though muffled by the blanket, was clear enough. "Ap-p-pologize? What _are_ you t-t-talking about?"

That response flummoxed him. "You . . . well, you really didn't have much to say. I thought you looked uncomfortable, and figured you'd had a lousy time."

She poked her head out, an incredulous look on her face. "Where in the world d-d-did you get that idea? Just b-because I did more listening than t-t-talking?"

"Oh." He paused for a couple of seconds. "I'm sorry. My mistake. I am not yet familiar with your reactions in a given situation. You'd always been fairly voluble in our earlier dialogues. I assumed that your reticence was due to discomfort."

She didn't answer for a minute, being busy trying to get into the togs Karl had given her. She finally tossed back the blanket, and Karl had to put a paw over his muzzle to keep from laughing out loud.

"I know what you're thinking," she said, wagging a finger at him, "and you can j-just keep it to yourself."

"My mind is completely blank, m'lady."

"You, sir, don't lie worth a damn." She passed him her wet things.

An involuntary chuckle escaped him. "As you say." He looked askance at what she'd done with the clothes: the shirt was wrapped twice around her torso, its long tails threaded through the front belt loops of the shorts and knotted, both to cinch them up and keep them from falling off. The effect was somewhat . . . motley.

She hunkered down beside the fire, trying to wring out her headfur, while he arranged her clothes on the rack to dry. "There were quite a few interesting conversations going on, and I enjoyed just sitting and listening. I'm still new around here, y'know. I didn't feel like butting in." Her teeth-chattering had finally eased up, now that she was starting to feel warm again.

"Sounds like a wise decision, in retrospect. You'd pick up more that way."

"Uh-huh, that was my take on it. And for your information, I _did_ have a good time. Those seem like awfully nice folks. Just regular furs, not stuck up or sanctimonious."

One side of his muzzle curled up. "Christians _are_ just regular furs. The difference is that they realized what they were missing, and are thankful they got it. What were you expecting?"

"I dunno. Bible-thumping. Hell-fire and brimstone. I wasn't sure."

He reached up and scratched the back of his head. "Had you never been around a group of Christians before?"

She just looked at him for a few moments, eyes not really focused. "Well . . . not for a long time, anyway. Not since I was a kit. One time when I was in college, I got dragged to some kind of meeting where this really old ferret screamed at us about repentance, and God's judgment on the wicked, for three solid hours."

"Heh. I can just imagine how that really whetted your appetite for more."

"Oh, you bet. Right. Absolutely. . . . **NOT**."

Karl scooped all the bits of onion over to one side of the pan and slid in the eight fillets, which immediately began to sizzle. Wendy's eyes widened as the aroma hit her nose. "Wow! What kind of fish did you say that was?"

"Trout."

"Funny, I don't think I've ever had it before. Which is kinda weird, as much as I love seafood."

"Well, it isn't technically seafood. How wide is your experience with riverfood?"

She gave him a pained look. "Ha. Ha. Ha."

"You asked for that."

"And you probably think I deserved it, too." She caught his eye, grinning. "Don't you?"

"Don't _you_?"

"Certainly not. No true gentleman would inflict a pun on a lady."

"So by that tour de force of logic, turn about is _not_ fair play?"

She passed a languid, melodramatic forearm over her brow. "Alas! Can chivalry be so dead?"

He just about choked on that one. "Tell you what. How about we shelve this topic before I _really_ get in over my head?"

Her bright eyes betrayed her lively mood. "Okay. Wanna talk politics instead?"

He sat back with an exasperated expression. "Gee whiz, Wendy! Did I miss something? I don't remember spitting in your beer anytime recently."

"Sorry! Can't help it. You're just so much fun to pick on." She reached across and patted his knee. "And you're such a good sport about it, too. I guess I shouldn't abuse the privilege, huh?"

"I'd be ever so grateful."

"All right, then. I'll be good."

"Of _that_, I have no doubt."

She shot him a startled glance. _Did he just throw me a double entendre?_ His face told her nothing in that regard. He seemed quite involved with flipping the fish.

Thirty more seconds on the last side, and the trout were done. He removed them to a metal platter and arranged the onions beside the fillets, then squeezed a lemon over everything. Wendy leaned over and took a deep, appreciative sniff.

He got up and went to the stream, pulled out a small, wire basket and brought it back to the fire. He surprised her by removing a bottle of wine.

"What's that?"

He shrugged. "Just a little white Zinfandel. Nothing fancy, but I thought it would compliment the fish."

"Now, you're talking!" She rubbed her paws together. The rustic setting of their meal lent an interesting contrast to the quality of the food. Karl poured a mug of wine for each of them. Giving Wendy a small fork, and four of the fillets piled on a paper plate, he said, "Bon appetite."

Chewing her first bite slowly, savoring the fine texture of his catch, she swallowed and said, "You know, there are times when I am really, _really_ glad I was born a carnivore."

"I know what you mean."

The fish course (and two mugs of wine apiece) quickly disappeared.

Karl took her plate, then rummaged in the pack again, pulling out a long loaf of bread and a sealed foil-pack. The latter turned out to contain a small, highly aromatic wheel of semi-soft Münster.

"Damnation, son! If this were a cheese commercial, I'd be saying, 'How did you know?' about now."

"You like Münster, do you?"

"'Like' is hardly the word. Gimme!"

He chuckled at her exuberance. "And here I thought I was the one who _really_ enjoyed eating."

"It's all that machete work. It carved a major hollow spot right about here." She pointed to her midriff.

He cut a generous slice of the stuff and passed it to her with a hunk of the bread. "Just one of those store-bought Italian loaves, but not too bad, considering."

She was busy with the cheese, and didn't answer until it was gone. "Whoosh! Full up now!" She arose and stretched briefly, which action Karl did not miss. Even in the tremendously ill-fitting clothes, she was an eye full.

She caught his glance and grinned. "Does that bother you?"

"To borrow your phraseology, 'Bother is hardly the word.'"

"Well, hey, I don't want to offend your Christian sensibilities." Her provocative posture gave the lie to that statement.

"I don't think I believe you."

"Why not? I know I must look a fright right now."

He considered that. "Does my opinion have any bearing on the matter?"

That earned him a blank look. "Well, sure. Every woman likes to think she could turn heads. It's a little . . . disheartening, I guess. Distressing? Yeah that's better. It's distressing to be in a situation like this, where I know darn well I don't."

He gave her a steady gaze for several seconds, then said, "I don't really think it would matter what you wore or how you wore it. Trust me, you turn heads."

"Even dressed in this? With straggly, creek-water fur?" She looked unconvinced.

"Even so."

She shook her head decisively. "I don't see how."

Karl's expression turned decidedly sober. "Wendy, I find it inconceivable that you could be unaware of the effect you have on males."

She found herself inordinately pleased with his statement. ". . . . . Thank you."

Karl took the iron skillet back off the coals, used a pawful of paper towels to wipe it clean, and set it off to the side to cool. He took their forks and dropped them into a plastic bag for washing later. The paper plates and towels went onto the fire. He took his fishing gear and stowed it in the "trunk" of his vehicle. Then he came back and tested Wendy's clothes for dryness.

"Does that include you?" she asked.

"Pardon me?"

"What you said. About my 'effect' on males." She crossed one leg over the other and propped an elbow on her knee, resting her chin on her fist.

He gave her a long-suffering look, and sighed. "I _am_ male, Wendy."

"Well, I wasn't sure. You never say anything." It wasn't _quite_ a pout.

He sat next to her. She was gazing into the fire, so he studied her profile. "Do you remember when we first met?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what I said about your resemblance to someone I used to know?"

She glanced up at him. "Yes! Yes I do! Her name was Phoebe . . . something."

"Phoebe Reynard."

"Right. You said the resemblance was 'uncanny' if I remember."

"Correct." He paused in thought. "You . . . put me in mind of her in a number of different ways. Sometimes it's such a jarring experience, when it comes home to me that it's you, and not her, that it hurts to breathe."

Her eyes widened. "Oh." Realization dawned. "You were. . . close?"

He nodded.

"Really close?"

"I asked her to marry me. More than once. The only reason she wouldn't is that she didn't believe in marriage. Thought it to be an 'outdated relic of a dead, patriarchal society'. In her words."

"Oh." She didn't know what else to say.

He took her paw in his, his face earnest. "We were together for some years. We started out as . . . well, I guess you'd say co-workers, but we became friends, then lovers, then soulmates, then hardly distinguishable as separate entities." His gaze held hers, intent. "I took her death hard. Very, _very_ hard. It nearly drove me over the edge."

". . . . . Oh."

"So, when you showed up, it brought back a wealth of memories I'd had buried for some time. A lot of really good memories. Some not so good. But each one is tainted with the gall of knowing that she's dead." He stood and went over to the frame, retrieving her smallclothes, which he passed to her as he sat back down. "Yes, Wendy, I find you attractive. Very much so. I could hardly help doing otherwise. But you should pardon me if I seem more than somewhat reluctant to do anything about it just yet."

_Yeesh! Talk about negotiating a mine field! Be careful here, girl._ "Karl?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you . . . have you ever . . . talked about that with anyone?" She held up a cautioning paw. "Not that I necessarily want you to right now, it's just that with some of the stuff I've been through, I found a _whoooole_ lotta release in talking it over with a friend."

"Thanks, I appreciate your tact. Yes, I have. With my pastor. We had many, many counseling sessions, and even more friend-to-friend talks. And, yes, it was quite helpful. Frankly, I am not _that_ sure I'd be alive today if it hadn't been for Alan Grey."

_Whoa! Careful, Wendy, step very carefully._ "He sounds like a good friend."

"That he is. You'd have to get to know him to understand what a good friend he can be. I became a Christian largely through my interaction with him." The ghost of a smile flitted across his face. "I even asked his advice about you last week."

"Say what?"

"He always makes such good sense, always sees to the core of the matter. He did then, too. And I've been mulling over what he said ever since."

"What did he tell you about me?" She was genuinely confused. "Does he know me?"

"No, he doesn't, except through the eyes of my descriptions. And as for what he told me . . ." He trailed off, then turned his gaze away to stare at the forest.

Wendy could only stand that calculating look for so long. "What?"

"Well, it was a _private_ counseling session."

"Uh-uh, Buster, you can't just bring the subject up and then drop it like that. Give."

Around a muted grin, he said, "All he really told me was 'Take it slow'. In a nutshell."

"And that was the gist of his sage advice?"

"It's what I needed to hear. I have a tendency to get a little too narrow a focus when an issue is important to me."

"And it sounds like this business with Phoebe definitely qualifies."

"That it does."

She rubbed her muzzle a few times, then asked, "Would it . . . bother you to talk about it now, just a little bit? And that's a yes-or-no question. If it makes you the least bit uncomfortable, I don't want to, either."

He thought it over for a few seconds, then asked, "Did you have some specific questions?"

"Umm . . . yeah. A few. I'll admit to being curious about this old love of yours who looks so much like me."

"I'll do my best to answer them, then."

"Okay. And please, if it hurts too much, just tell me it's none of my business."

"Fair enough."

_Here goes._ "How did she die?"

"She was murdered."

"_**Holy Shit!**_ . . ." Her eyes went very round. "Did they ever find the fur who did it?"

Karl looked straight at her. "I did."

His face was beginning to spook her, but morbid curiosity pulled her on. "You, ah, you were the one who caught him?"

"Them."

"Them? How many were there?"

"Eight." His jaw was . . . rigid. "And, actually, 'caught' isn't quite the right term. That would imply apprehension."

_I'm pretty sure I don't want to know what he means by that._

He could see the uneasiness and fear plain on her face, so he added, "That's one of those memories I could do without. Is there something _else_ you'd like to know?"

She took a deep breath and re-centered. "How long ago did she die?"

He looked at her for a second, then dropped his head to stare at the ground. In a very low voice, he replied, "Nine years ago, yesterday."

##

. . .

. . .

. . .

**Author's Notes:**

**Yeah, I know, this is a crazy place for a break. But there really isn't a better one before the end of the chapter, and it's already getting long. I'll post the next piece tomorrow to make up for it.**

**Review, people! All I'm hearing is crickets!**


	21. Chapter 8 Disclosures Part B

Chapter Eight – Disclosures – Part B

##

_He could see the uneasiness and fear plain on her face, so he added, "That's one of those memories I could do without. Is there something __**else**__ you'd like to know?"_

_She took a deep breath and re-centered. "How long ago did she die?"_

_He looked at her for a second, then dropped his head to stare at the ground. In a very low voice, he replied, "Nine years ago, yesterday."_

. . .

. . .

. . .

_Damn! Direct hit amidships. _ "Oh, geez, Karl, I'm sorry!" Mortified, her expression as she looked his way was quite stricken. "I really stepped in it, there. Let's stop."

"If you wish." He seemed to get more withdrawn by the second, and wouldn't meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry I got you started on this. I didn't know. That was so stupid!" She laid a paw on his arm. "Oh, Karl!" Her eyes smarting with unshed tears of sympathy, she put her arms around his neck, giving him a quick, reassuring hug as she leaned her head against his shoulder.

She had never done that before. From the standpoint of physical contact, she hadn't had occasion to do more than shake his paw until today, and when he fished her out of the creek she'd been too involved with her own difficulties to pay attention to minor details, such as what his arm felt like. In the first couple of seconds of the embrace, as she wrapped one paw up and around the back of his neck, and the other over the top of his far shoulder, she could feel the resilient, ropy outlines of muscle under his long fur. She knew he was extraordinarily blessed in that regard, but until that instant had never given any thought to what they might feel like.

She had dated a couple of body-builders, and one power-lifter. She knew muscle, knew what it felt like, knew the difference between the firm and the flabby. She was, after all, quite well-muscled herself. But this! This was unique.

It may as well have been wood. Or perhaps something harder. He tensed slightly when she hugged him, and the banded cords in his neck tightened. The way they moved under her fingers! Even given what she had seen of his physical power, she could tell there were yet deep, deep reserves untapped. Those incredible thews didn't even feel . . . organic.

All that happened in less than three seconds. He flinched and stood. She flinched and let go. Self-consciously, they moved away from each other. He went back over to the vehicle and started rearranging articles in the trunk. Wendy, after a few seconds of equal parts wonder and indecision, began to collect her clothes off the rack.

After a minute or so he came back to the fire, and set a bucket on the ground next to it. Wendy was tying her still-damp clothes in a bundle. She didn't look up when he came up beside her, but said, "I'll just wear these things home. It'll be quicker and easier, and I'll get your stuff back to you later, and I'll clean 'em first, so you don't have to worry, they'll be as good . . . good as . . . as new. . . ." Her voice trailed off when she felt his massive paw touch her headfur.

"Wendy, I'm the one who should be sorry. Sorry for causing _you_ such intense discomfort. I am supposed to have better control of myself, and I let events . . ." He sighed, and lightly stroked her headfur down to her shoulders. She surprised herself with a small shudder of delight at the caress. _That felt nice!_

"Being here, talking _with_ you, talking _about_ Phoebe, is like looking through a lens with a bad case of spherical aberration." He stroked her headfur again, and she leaned into it a little. "I see you. I see her. Overlapped, superimposed. A double exposure." He eased around in front of her, reached down to lift her head, to gain eye contact. Then he put his paws behind his back, standing at parade rest. "I am still in the process of making my peace with certain elements of my past. I wish I could say I had put the ghosts to rest, but that would not be true."

"Karl, you don't have to explain yourself to me. I know all about dealing with ghosts." She could see the doubt rise in his eyes when she said that, but he kept his opinion to himself.

"Be that as it may, I needn't burden you with my private deficiencies. And I do apologize. I won't bring it up again." He held an arm out, indicating his vehicle. "Are you ready to go?"

And he smiled.

_Impressive. Either he's a good actor, or he really is back in control of himself._ She looked around the small campsite, then up at the big wolverine. "Yes."

He lent her a paw to help her up. She walked over to his oversized ATV, turning to look back at him when she realized he'd remained by the fire. She saw him dump the contents of the bucket on the fire, which immediately extinguished.

Totally.

The flame stopped. The smoke stopped. Instantly, as if by flipping a switch.

She trotted back over to the firepit and looked it over. The remaining pieces of charred wood were covered with a fine, yellowish powder. She held her paw out to it: no heat. She leaned over to touch it, but Karl stopped her.

"Don't put your paw on it yet. It takes a few minutes for the catalyzation to complete. Until then it can be pretty caustic."

As she watched, a slight rime of ice began to form on the edges and corners of the burnt logs.

"What _**is**_ that stuff?"

"Fire-putter-outer."

"Ha-ha. Where'd you get it?"

"From a secure source."

"Oh, right. What you mean is, you came up with it yourself. It's just like all that other stuff you made."

"Why would you say that?"

She raised an eyebrow and quirked her muzzle up on one side. "Do you deny inventing it?"

He raised both arms to the sky. "Don't you think this glorious day could be spent in some better fashion than in the interrogation of poor, defenseless wolverines?"

"In the first place, no I don't, and in the second, 'defenseless wolverines' is an oxymoron."

"Very well. Since you must know, I did formulate that compound. What of it?"

"To use a phrase I heard from my attorney, I think that product has great commercial potential."

"I suppose that's possible. We'll never know, though, will we?"

Her exasperation surfaced with a splash. "What is it with you and financial success? You act like it's some sort of disease!"

"The side effects can be highly pathological, yes."

"Oh, for Pete's sake! You're impossible." She went back to the ATV, but stopped when she realized she had no idea how to get the door open. "Ummmmm . . . Karl?"

"Yes?" He was right behind her, and his close response almost made her jump.

"Ah . . . If I apologize for calling you 'impossible', will you show me how to get inside this thing?"

He chuckled. "I imagine that _would_ render me more inclined to give your plight the proper consideration."

"Okay, then. I apologize."

He reached over her head and depressed a small rocker panel set flush with the surface. The door lifted silently, and a three-step foot ladder extended smoothly from the bottom edge of the door to the ground.

She leaned over and ran a paw over the top rung. "Impressive. Hydraulic?"

"Magnetic pulse array. It's more reliable."

"Cute. And about what I've come to expect from you."

"I'm flattered. Thank you."

He helped her into the ATV's front passenger seat. The cab was quite roomy, unsurprising given the builder and driver. Although spare and utilitarian in appearance, the seat was very comfortable, and the passenger-side controls were well-placed. She slid her tail through the lumbar slot, thumbed the window down, and waited. There was a clank from the rear as Karl replaced the fire bucket. Then he opened the driver's door and climbed in.

"Fasten your harness, please."

She snickered as she complied. "You sound just like an air steward."

The vehicle rose straight up on its suspension nearly a meter, then took off at a fair pace, maybe fifty klicks. Wendy waited for the bumps, but they never came. She peered out the window at the ground rushing by, and saw that the wheels were reacting to the uneven surface, but not transmitting the shock to the cab. She glanced over at Karl and said, "Nice suspension system."

"Thanks."

"FLC independents?"

"Ayah."

"Hey! That's the first 'local' expression I've ever heard you use."

"That's possible."

"You know, I've been meaning to ask. You have an accent I can't place. From whence do you hail, O Mighty Inventor?"

He raised an eyebrow. "If you don't mind, 'Karl' will do nicely."

"Sorry, Karl. So. Where you from?"

"I was born in Finland. My parents emigrated when I was ten, and we never stayed in one place for more than two years while I lived with them. I've traveled a lot since leaving home, too. It does make for a funny accent, I suppose." He grinned over at her, then said in perfect British inflection, "One might suppose it a handicap, but it is easily overcome."

She started and whipped around to stare at him. "Do that again."

"Do what?"

"That didn't even sound like your voice! How'd you do that?"

"Practice. You can master almost anything if you practice long enough."

_Long enough? Hey!_ "Karl, may I ask you a very personal question?"

His expression darkened slightly. "And that would be different from our earlier conversation how?"

"Please forgive me for that. I can be excruciatingly thoughtless sometimes. This question is just about you, has nothing to do with Phoebe, and you can answer it in two words."

There went that eyebrow again. "You may ask, but I reserve the right to decline to answer."

"All right. How old are you?"

He glanced at her, puzzled. "Why do you want to know that?"

"Because I think you are older than you seem."

"Oh. And how old would that be?"

"You look and smell about twenty-five. Maybe thirty, tops. But you know some things and have done some things that I don't think anyfur that young could have accomplished." She paused, but he said nothing. She waited for several more seconds, then asked, "Does this mean you decline to answer?"

"No. I'm just running through the ramifications of my reply."

"Okay."

"I am older than that. But you should know a few things about wolverines first. And I need to find out something myself: had you ever known a wolverine before you met me?"

"Just one, a long time ago. He was a student at the University. Kept to himself, mostly, but played one hellacious game of bridge. He graduated at the end of my freshman year." She paused and frowned. "He didn't look much like you, though. Is there a reason for that?"

"What did he look like?"

"He had a lot more color variation in his fur. His facial stripes were pretty blond, and ran past his ears, all the way down his back. And the rest of his fur, what I could see of it, anyway, was a more medium brown than yours. Heck, for all practical purposes, yours is black."

"He sounds like a North American wolverine. I'm a Scandinavian species."

"Oh! That's right."

"And he's the only one you ever met before?"

"Yep, I'm pretty sure."

"There's a reason for that, you know."

". . . . And that would be?"

"We are very rare.

"Really! I wouldn't have thought that. How come?"

"Wolverines are loners by nature. We don't form friendships easily. We usually have short tempers, and can be more than a little hard to get along with. We have a tendancy to hold grudges, and to take revenge very, very seriously. The upshot of all this is that, oftentimes when we have children, if we have any at all, they come fairly late in life. For example, my father was fifty-two when I was born. And – you should know – as a species, our biological potential for a healthy lifespan is quite long."

"Define 'long' for me."

"All other things being equal, we get ten or twenty more years than most other species. About like Siberian Wolves, or Polar Bears, but not quite as long as Tasmanian Devils."

"Marsupials don't count."

He shot her a bemused glance. "Why do you say that?"

"They don't play by the rules."

"Not true. They just have a different set of rules."

"It isn't fair, though. They don't have to put up with going into heat, or being pregnant for months and months, or painful deliveries, or . . ."

"Life isn't fair, Wendy."

"Boy, you can say that again."

He grinned at her. "I think we got off the subject, there."

"Yeah. Sorry. Lifespan, yes?"

"Right. So, for a wolverine, living to ninety or a hundred or more would not be a big deal. Except for that other thing."

She frowned. "What other thing?"

"Wolverines don't usually – make that hardly ever – die of old age or illness."

"Oh. Just can't stay out of trouble, huh?"

"Something like that, yes."

"And it doesn't mellow with age?"

"Hmh. If anything it gets more pronounced. Picture a crotchety old geezer who can still do a standing back-flip, thinks he can whip twice his weight in wildcats, and has no compunction about giving it a shot."

"I see. 'Ten feet tall and bullet-proof' as the old saying goes. And that's _without_ being drunk?"

"Correct."

"And yet, _you_ don't strike me as the trouble-seeking kind."

"You wouldn't say that, had you known me ten years ago."

"Really. What changed you?"

He pulled out onto the road and wheeled around south. "What do you think?"

She pondered it for a minute, but didn't come up with anything.

He tried to help. "Think of a life-altering experience I've had in the last five years."

She turned a quizzical eye on him. "Did becoming a Christian have anything to do with it?"

"That had everything to do with it."

"Why?"

"It changes you. Sometimes, as in my case, the change is radical and obvious. In some furs, it is very subtle. It depends on what kind of furson you are in the first place. Some folks are just naturally loving and generous and helpful, so conversion really doesn't show on the outside."

"Karl, I've known some Christians who didn't fit _any_ of those descriptions."

"As have I. And it makes me wonder about the reality of their conversion experience. There are lots of furs who tag themselves 'Christian' who show no outward sign of having met the Holy Spirit."

This topic made Wendy uneasy, and besides, she realized he had gently guided her away from her initial goal. "You still haven't told me your age."

"You're right. And I don't think I will. But I will tell you that I work out a couple of hours a day."

"Oh, like it would take a genetic biologist to figure that one out! I mean: Duuuhh!"

"Tell you what. I'm older than you are. How about that?"

She gave him an arch smile. "You don't know how old I am."

"You were forty-two last April."

Her muzzle dropped open. "How did you know that?"

"I looked you up on the web. There is a ton of public-domain information available on just about anyfur. Age is one of the easiest."

"Where'd you get _**that**_ information?"

"From your membership at the YMCA."

"And just _why_ were you snooping my background?"

"Because of Phoebe. I wanted to know if you two had a relational connection."

"Oh. Couldn't you just have asked . . . well, okay, maybe not. Still . . . ."

"I know. And I am sorry. But at the time I felt I had to be sure."

"So, is there?"

"Relationship? No. None whatsoever."

"Hmh."

"Yeah, that's what I thought. Two furs who smell alike ought to have some . . ."

"Whoa! Whoa! Whaddaya mean, smell alike?"

"You and Phoebe smell the same. Not just similar. Same."

"You can remember how she smelled from nine years ago?"

"Yes."

Wendy had to let that one digest for a while.

They pulled into the driveway before she'd finished her cogitation. Karl parked under the porte-cochère, hopped out and zipped around the front of the vehicle before it had finished settling back down to its resting height. He opened the door for her and helped her down, then passed her the bundle she'd made of her things.

"Here you are, ma'am."

"Wendy!"

"Sorry. Wendy."

"You told me that would be easy to remember," she teased, giving him a light poke.

"I also said mastery takes practice."

"That you did. So, are you gonna practice?"

"Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wendy, Wenmphh." Her slim paw covered the end of his muzzle, but couldn't hide the grin.

"I should've known better. You _are_ impossible."

"Just let me know when you get tired of it."

She dropped her arm to her side and gave him a long, honest, thoughtful look. "You know, now that you mention it, I'm _not_ tired of it. Not by a long shot." She glanced down and to the side for a second, nodded to herself, and said, "Come on." She trooped off to the door.

"What?"

"Come with me."

"What, right now?"

She stopped at the threshold and put one fist on a hip. "Yes. I'm not through talking to you yet."

He smiled that _cute_ little half-smile. "So you didn't have any plans for the afternoon?"

"Hey, write your plans in sand and your goals in stone. The nice thing about plans is their flexibility." They looked at each other for a few seconds, and she asked, "You coming or not?"

"My lady, I am at your disposal."

"Good." She turned to unlock the door.

He grinned large. "Just don't make it a _garbage_ disposal, and we'll get along fine."

"AAUUUGHHH!"

He held up a finger, making a 'tick' mark in the air. "One for me."

"You're on, Buster. You ain't seen nothin' yet."

He chuckled to himself as he followed her into the house.

##

_** Monday 15 August 2016, 9:15am **_

Tiny chips of dark-mustard-yellow paint that had peeled or were scraped from the small room's cinder-block walls collected in a narrow line against the baseboards, themselves in dire need of a good cleaning. Two doors, on opposite walls, opened inward. Each was made of heavy-gauge metal, and had a very small, wire-reinforced window. Two dented metal folding chairs and one ancient and sagging naugahide couch comprised the sum total of furniture in the windowless space. What was left of a very old back-issue of Field & Stream lay on one of the chairs. The room's only occupant sat in the other.

One could say without exaggeration that he seemed out of place. He was lean, this weasel, and tall. Thin as a willow withe, and sharp, the long, gray eyes missing nothing. His dark-gray, three-piece, pinstripe suit bore the label of a small shop in Ypres that wouldn't even talk to a prospective client for less than eight thousand francs. The thin, platinum-and-black-leather briefcase on his lap was carefully paw-crafted, a masterpiece of accessorizing. He would look right at home in any boardroom or court in the land.

And, frankly, this backwoods lockup was a far remove from his usual aseptic surroundings.

Only his eyes moved when the door from the cellblock opened. A belligerent and bedraggled red fox, still in pawcuffs, preceded the fat, little beaver into the room.

Deputy Scrugg addressed the weasel. "Here ya go, Mr. Stellid. He's all yours, and good riddance. He's given us nothin' but grief for better'n five weeks." He unlocked and removed the cuffs. The fox started combing the fur on his wrist with his claws, giving the law officer the evil eye.

Mr. Stellid stood and waited while the deputy unlocked and opened the other door, then led the way out into the office, through the tiny lobby, and outside. The morning was damp, that sticky kind of humidity that mats your fur down, plasters your clothes flat, and makes you want to avoid touching things. It seemed to affect Mr. Stellid not at all.

He walked over to a limousine. The huge, uniformed, black lion standing beside the rear door opened it at his approach, and the weasel ducked and climbed inside. The fox made to follow, but the lion put out an arm to bar his way.

"Hey, Kylie, call off your thug. It's bad enough you leave me in that hellhole for over a month, without having to. . ."

"Shut up." The weasel's speech was low, smooth, calm, controlled: the rounded voice of an orator. "Had it been left up to me, you'd have stayed in there until you were so old you had to drink all your meals."

"What? Uncle Zeb would . . ."

"I have done what I did as a _favor_ to your uncle. God alone knows why he gives a tinker's damn about your worthless pelt, but he seems to hold some affection for you. I suppose that, unlike your parents, the Senator hasn't figured you out yet. Or he may be holding out some vain hope that you will change for the better."

The fox had been swelling through that entire denouncement, and he burst out, "I'll have your job for that, you slimeball mouthpiece!"

He felt the lion lay a paw on the back of his neck and give a light squeeze. His head seemed to detonate. The youth crumbled, arms twitching, to the pavement.

Kyle Stellid leaned out his window a bit and looked down at the fox. "Mr. Vulpexa, your uncle instructed that you were to be given the means to keep body and soul together for the duration of your stay here in Vermont. And, please understand, you _will_ stay in Vermont. Under the terms of your release, you are not to approach within five hundred meters of Martin O'Musca, Samantha Foxx, or any of their family members or friends, nor are you to contact any of them, in any fashion, at any time."

"I'll go . . . anywhere . . . I damn well . . . please." He was having a little trouble getting his breath back, but his obstinate spirit remained intact, even sprawled on the ground as he was.

"Don't be such a moron. You have no _idea_ what the hate-crime laws are like in this state. If you do get convicted – and by the way, that is a distinct possibility – you won't even be _eligible_ for parole for fifteen years. If you want to remain free in the mean time, I suggest you find a quiet town in the southeastern corner of the state, rent a motel room, and stay there." He flipped a plastic card at the fox. "And if you ever want to see Alabama again, you should start praying, because Divine intervention is likely the only thing that will do it."

The young tod sat up and picked up the card with a trembling paw, succeeding after only three tries. "What's this?"

"It's a chit card. It's like a debit card, but it has a daily limit of a hundred and fifty dollars and a transaction limit of seventy-five."

"I can't survive on a lousy hundred-and-a-half!"

"Then you should figure out how. That's all you're getting." He motioned to the lion, who walked away toward the front of the limousine. "And, as an added incentive not to jump bond, the card _only_ works in Vermont.

"Hey, wait! What about my buds?"

"What about them?"

"You gotta get them out, too!"

The lawyer shook his head. "You are such an amazing little idiot, it boggles my mind that you haven't gotten yourself killed before now. Do you realize I had to talk to five different appellate court judges over a three week period to get your sorry ass out of there? And the only – the _**ONLY**_ – reason I was able to do it was that you did not personally take part in the assault on Mr. O'Musca. Your 'buds' aren't going anywhere. Were you aware that four of them had arrest records, and two had outstanding warrants?"

The fox stared at him owlishly. "You're kidding."

Mr. Stellid contemplated him with distaste. "Graeme, you should get out of town, keep a low profile, and keep your nose clean."

"Don't call me that! My name's G.W."

"As of this moment, your name is no longer any concern of mine. I have discharged my obligation to Zebulon Vulpexa, and I now find it necessary to be elsewhere. Good day." The window slid silently shut, and the limousine drove off.

Graeme Vulpexa got to his feet, rubbing the back of his neck. _Slimy excuse for lawyer. I'll get him, just see if I don't._

He pocketed the card and started off down the street, looking for a restaurant. And a phone. Plans were already forming in his restless mind. A certain interfering mouse was about to learn that he'd messed with the wrong fox. One way or another, he was going to get some payback for his time in stir.

And to hell with staying in Vermont. He had some calls to make.

**End of Chapter Eight**

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. . .

. . .

**Author's Notes:**

**This is the End of Book One: Moving Things Around**

**The story continues in _Gone Wylde - Book Two: Is This Deception Really Necessary?_**

**I would very much like to know your thoughts upon reading this far. I thank you for sticking with it. So does Wendy.**


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